Lay Beside Me in the Dawn
by The Owl of Minerva
Summary: After the war, exhausted Hermione decides to take some time for herself. Her holiday plans absolutely didn't include vengeful Death Eaters, ancient magic, time travelling, or Tom Riddle.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and the movie is produced by Warner Brothers. I own my computer, my story, and that's it.  
Characters: Hermione, Dumbledore, teenage Riddle, teenage McGonagall and many others.  
Pairing: hints of Hr/R (which I still haven't forgiven her. I mean, Ron? Please…); Hr/TR  
Rating: T (for language, violence and some sexual references)  
Synopsis: After the war, exhausted Hermione decides to take some time for herself. Her holiday plans absolutely didn't include vengeful Death Eaters, ancient magic, time travelling, or Tom Riddle.  
Spoilers: All books.  
Betaed by spotpc. (Thank you so much!) All mistakes you see are definitely mine.

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

"I can only say, _there_ we have been: but I cannot say where.  
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time."

- T. S. Eliot

Chapter I

In the end, all she could do was mourn. The losses: Sirius, Fred, Colin, Remus, Tonks, and Snape…By god, there were so many pointless dead. Just hearing the names killed her a little inside. She couldn't understand how they were dead and she was alive. They had won, but the price of their victory was too high.

The overwhelming guilt - it was too much. Before, she had always been able to process things logically. But there was nothing logical in her restless nights, in her paranoia that haunted her throughout the days. Deep down, she admitted, her control had always been an illusion. She had hardened herself for Harry, Ron, Ginny, her parents and all those who relied on her, but in the process lost the ability to carry her own weight.

It couldn't last. She had to do something.

Hermione's plan was simple. She would take a journey through Europe. Spend time alone and recover. She would return just before the fall semester to finalize her last year in Hogwarts and do her N.E.W.T.s.

It would be her holiday.

She called her mother, and to be honest, wasn't truly surprised by the lack of reaction. She didn't ask questions, sounding almost relieved when she learned Hermione wasn't coming home for the summer break. Hermione pursed her lips, a fresh wave of shame rolling over her. After returning her parents' memories, things had changed. The Grangers had always regarded Hermione's involvement with the wizarding world with a certain care. They didn't voice it, but Hermione had sensed their growing discomfort as the years passed by. Regardless of her best intentions, her memory charm hadn't been something that diminished their distrust toward magic.

She finished quickly, uncomfortable standing for so long in public and having the strained conversation with her mother. She couldn't stop glancing around to make sure she wouldn't be caught unawares, hexed and tormented by Cruciatus Curses. When she ended the call, her other hand was tightly clutched around Bellatrix's – _no, her wand_! in her pocket. Her knuckles were white, and her fingers numb from the pressure.

Mercifully, Harry understood her. He didn't criticize her, or her decision, didn't demand explanations. For the briefest second, a flash of jealousy crossed his eyes. Then he gave her that same sad lopsided smile.

"I think that's a good idea, Hermione," he sighed, listening to the restless creaking and rustling of the leaves of the Whomping Willow.

"I would do something like that too, if I could. But you know what it's like." He gestured in a way that spoke volumes and laughed dryly. "Percy is coming here next week with the Ministry representatives. I promised McGonagall I'd meet with them. They still need to work through some bureaucratic steps to get the records clear. Sna-Severus did an excellent job in forging the student archives for the Ministry and Voldemort. Almost all the information on the students has been mutilated for the last twenty years."

Hermione accepted the explanation without question-. She had been in the meeting too.

"Besides, I need to see Ginny at the Burrow after everything is resolved. I still haven't told her Shacklebolt asked me to join the Aurors. Which reminds me," he glanced at her curiously, "what did Ron say?"

"Oh, you know him," Hermione sighed, slightly annoyed to feel so guilty for leaving Ron. But everything had gotten so complicated after the final battle.

"He called me a bloody idiot and accused me of being as selfish as Malfoy. Though he didn't call me Slytherins' little henchman. So, I guess that's progress, of sorts." She smiled then. She and Ron would see how things would evolve after she returned, after they both had had time to tend their emotional, mental and physical scars, she told herself. Goddamn it, she deserved to be selfish, even if only for a short time.

"Yeah, you might be right." Absentminded, Harry stared over the yard, his thoughts somewhere far away. It didn't take too much to figure out what he was thinking.

"You think he's permanently gone?" Hermione asked quietly.

The question appeared to rattle him a little. He looked at her briefly, hesitating. "I…don't know, Hermione. I think so. The scar, it feels different." Harry brushed his hair, revealing the lightning-bolt scar - his trademark. Then he laughed again that dry, humourless laugh, placing his hands on the wand in his lap, and patted it affectionately.

"And if not, we just have to take care of him one more time, right?"

Despite, or maybe because the mere idea was so absolutely horrid, Hermione joined his laughter.

(i)

Even the very idea of taking a plane made Hermione all jittery, so she took the train, heading first to Italy: Venice, Milan, Naples and Rome. She spent some time leisurely walking along the cobbled streets, enjoying the feeling of acting like a tourist. Drifting her days away under the scorching sun, among nameless people with whom she didn't share any connection. Occasionally, Hermione noticed entrances leading to the wizarding world. One hidden behind a narrow alley just next to a bar near an old chapel, and another one masked as a façade of a flower shop.

She didn't enter either one.

After a month of aimless wandering from Italy to Greece, and then across the Ionian Sea, her initial numbness started to wear off. She didn't care what time she got up, lying on the bed sometimes until noon and listening to the sound of waves. Unhurried, she left the room and took a stroll on the beach, watching as the waves rolled in, one by one. Life started to feel like life again.

Maybe her prolonged exposure to the non-magical world dimmed the worst memories. Magic and death didn't belong to the white sand beach full of half-naked tourists and locals bathing under the sun. Hermione leaned on her hands and turned to look when a group of laughing girls and boys passed by. One of the boys with red head and sunburnt skin kept his arm around a slim-waisted girl, catching her eye. Her face fell and she sighed as she lay down on her towel. Hermione closed her eyes, firmly casting the image of the nameless redheaded boy out of her mind.

_Peck._

She must have dozed. Her face was suddenly itching. Grunting at the inefficiency of muggle sun lotions, she touched her face gingerly.

_Peck._

Her eyes bolted open at the repeated light knock. It took some time to get used to the bright light, until she recognized the reason for her disturbance. A tiny, scruffy-looking owl stood next to her, carrying a letter. It hooted softly as if to reprimand her for sleeping under the sun. She yelped as the bird affectionately socked her once again, like a tousled miniature version of Mother Goose.

"I'm awake, you disrespectful little mongrel!" Hermione hissed at Pigwidgeon, nervous that people would notice the owl, before getting up. "And don't you dare to give me that look. No treats for you this time!"

The owl cooed a bit louder this time and Hermione glared at the bird. Maybe sensing her seething annoyance, Pigwidgeon took off quickly. In disarray, it zigzagged across the sky and left her the letter it had carried.

_Ms. Hermione Granger  
North Beach, 127th towel from the right  
Samos, Greece_

Hermione folded the parcel open, faintly disappointed when she recognized Ginny's neat handwriting instead of Ron's.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I hope you're doing fine, enjoying your holiday wherever you are now. Harry said that you'd be away most of the summer. I still hoped you'd - come for Fred's funeral. And Remus' and Tonks', and Colin's… Now, come to think of it, I can't say that I blame you for going away._

_It's been a difficult summer but we're starting to recover. George is making jokes, though they're not half as funny as they used to be…then. Home's also repaired, and the gnomes have returned. I just threw one out of Harry's bed where it was breastfeeding gnome babies._

Hermione felt her lips twitching as she imagined the sight.

_I couldn't bear to mention that to Harry when he wondered at the disarray of his blankets. He's stayed at our place the whole summer. It's quite funny how shy he actually is when it comes to girls. I think he fears that mom would hex him if she saw us snogging. He's also getting well along in his new job at the Ministry, unsurprisingly. You know that he always wanted to become an Auror. Also, some time after you left Shacklebolt visited us and asked if Ron was willing to work as an Auror. Dad got so proud he almost exploded, and mom reacted, well, like mom. You know her; and Ron was __so dumbstruck he couldn't speak for minutes (not that I minded). Harry confessed to me, in private, that he had asked Shacklebolt to consider recruiting Ron, although he told me only after I coerced it out of him._

_Truly, how stupid does he think I am?_

_They're doing a great job, going around the wizarding world and hunting the remaining followers of the Dark Lord. Last week, they finally caught Walroy when he was trying to cross the Canal with his comrade, Jugson. It was mentioned in the Daily Prophet. Though, truth be told, too many of them are still free. And they never found Jugson's body. _

_I've seen Luna a few times over the summer. She sends you greetings and asks you to owl her if you see any traces of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. I'm expecting her to come to the Burrow - next week._ _As school's about to start, I was wondering if you'd be coming over too? Mom and dad would love to see you, and I know Harry and Ron miss you._

_Have to go now. Mom's shouting downstairs that dad's returned from work with Harry and Ron._

_Remember to take care of yourself, Hermione!_

_Lovingly Yours,_

_Ginny_

The letter snapped her out of her illusion of eternal sun, sand and timeless summer. Hardly noticing it, Hermione left the beach, the letter stuffed in her beaded purse. She wandered through the parched roads of the small island town, crowded with small shops that sold every possible useless trinket. She stopped, troubled at her own thoughts. Part of her wanted to return to the wizarding world. The other part still mourned. Blindly, she stared at the items placed in a showcase before realizing someone had addressed her.

Startled, she shook her head. "Excuse me?"

"Seeing something you like, _né_?" An elderly dark-eyed woman smiled at her. Her dark messy hair had some white streaks, and she wore a black dress that fell to her ankles. The thick wool cloth must be stifling but she carried it effortlessly.

Hermione attempted a smile, "Your amulets are very nice looking. I doubt they actually work though." She couldn't help her remark, inspecting the amulets. The symbol was distractingly familiar, composed of blue and white concentric circles, with an almost black centre.

The woman's eyes crinkled. "You're not afraid of _vaskania,_ _ohi_?"

"What? The Evil Eye?" Hermione almost snorted, tearing her gaze from the merchandise. "That's a pure folk legend without any basis in reality. Everyone knows that -" She snapped her mouth shut just in time before slipping out something this muggle wasn't supposed to know.

The woman made a funny sound at the back of her throat. "No basis in reality?" she repeated, clearly annoyed. "You young people are so arrogant, trusting you know everything and disregarding the old wisdom."

"Madam," Hermione said somewhat tersely. "I'm not disdaining your wisdom. I merely pointed out that I find the Evil Eye a very vague concept." Besides, according to _Why Muggles Believe: The Introduction to Muggle Myths, _the concept of the Evil Eye was based on the misuse of Legilimency.

The woman snorted, gesturing Hermione to follow. "I shall demonstrate for you, _girl_."

Wearily, Hermione followed her inside the dusty store, partly welcoming the distraction the muggle woman provided. Inside the air smelled of salt, water and earth. The shelves crowded with merchandise like lamps, nazars, amulets and sundials barely revealed the painted white terracotta walls. Items also hung from the ceiling, making it difficult to navigate across the floor without bumping one's head. She lingered next to a table, eyeing a row of glass orbs curiously. They looked suspiciously like Professor Trelawney's crystal balls. And wasn't that a One-Sided-Sickle? She stopped and glared at the woman, who had reached a dark wooden counter. Behind it, a colourful wall carpet hung.

"You're a witch!" Hermione accused sourly, and the woman turned around.

"Sophia Logicamus, at your service." She smiled. "And you're Hermione Granger, a muggleborn witch and a friend of Harry Potter." The woman leaned on the counter, folding her arms across her chest. "I must admit I'm quite surprised to meet you in this little muggle village of all possible places in the world."

"Don't you know that under Ministry Muggle Protection Law, Article 24, it's illegal to sell magical devices to muggles?" Hermione sputtered after a silence, gesturing around.

Sophia's expression grew sour as if the mere idea tasted foul. "I have more wit than that. I don't sell wizarding stuff to muggles, if you absolutely have to know."

Hermione blinked, surprised. "What are you doing here?" Then another, more alarming thought surfaced in her mind. "And what do you want from me?" she asked, retreating, her hands flying to her pocket and the familiar shape of her wand.

Sophia smiled calmly, revealing her wand hidden underneath her stained apron.

Before she even noticed, Hermione had drawn her own wand and pointed it at the witch. "Drop that wand!" she ordered.

Sophia arched her brow, keeping her wand lightly between her fingers as if Hermione's threat didn't concern her.

"I said, drop it," Hermione growled, her hand steady. Sophia's apparent calmness unnerved her.

Finally, Sophia obeyed, lowering the wand onto the counter. Unconsciously, Hermione sighed in relief. She didn't lower her own wand though.

"I have nothing against muggleborn witches," Sophia said quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on Hermione. "Nor was I a supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Honestly, I hardly care about Harry Potter either. I'm simply an explorer."

The woman appeared to be sincere but she wasn't convinced. Slowly, Hermione lowered her wand but didn't put it away "Here?"

"Samos used to be the location of Pythagoras' School of Mysteries," Sophia snapped. "I've lived here the last twenty years, doing research and some digging."

"You're a tomb raider!" Hermione gave her a disgusted look, but Sophia only chuckled.

"Please, that word wounds me. I'm not selling any of the items I find. I'm merely…" she hesitated, "collecting evidence."

"For what?"

Sophia smiled, pulled back her shoulders and shoved the wall cloth aside, revealing a hidden door. "I'll show you. If you please."

(ii)

The wide room behind the door looked like a mixture of laboratory, library and office. A large table stood in the centre. A pile of archaic items, lockets, golden coins, lumps of white marble and broken springs were dispersed all over it. She wandered slowly across the room, hardly stopping herself from touching the items, and bent over to read open notes.

_- Item no two hundred and six: Diagonal Wheel. Year: around 700th century BCE_

_- Item no two hundred and seven: A cog, maybe part of clockwork, year: unknown._

_- Item no two hundred and eight: unknown, year: unknown_

Her gaze fell upon the item that lay in the centre of the table. It was the size of her fist. It's golden surface gleamed in the soft light. The core was a flat, polished orb filled with archaic script and symbols. Dark markings she could barely read. Four orbital rings encircled it diagonally, intersecting each other above the hub.

"That's a sundial?" she asked, quietly, somehow bothered by the item. It reminded her about a long passed memory, and glanced over her shoulder.

Sophia smiled while taking a step closer. "I call it Pythagoras' Device for the lack of a better name. I've gone through all my books, searched the libraries and archives to get some information about it. Thus far I've found nothing, but I have my own ideas." She chuckled softly.

"Pythagoras' Device," Hermione repeated, muttering, and turned to look at the item again. The scientist in her was becoming curious. She could tell by the look of it that it was ancient: a lot older than Sword of Gryffindor, Elder Wand, or Cup of Hufflepuff. It reeked of old magic; so ancient it harboured the Dark Arts.

"The spheres must work as sort of navigation lines. See how they cross the table markings…" she mumbled, almost touching the hub.

"I think so too," Sophia answered, a note of approval in her voice, standing next to her and pointed with her finger at the hub. "That symbol resembles Neptune, under which appears to be Pisces: the two opposing horizontal lines."

"But they are astrological signs. It doesn't make sense. The wizarding world didn't use star signs before the Middle Age," Hermione resisted weakly while peering closer.

"And that's what I'm set to prove." She could hear the grim resolution in Sophia's voice. "I've spent over twenty years in this dust hole, looking for proof." Her voice grew bitter. "Crazy Sophia, they laughed and called me at the Academy, when I told them about my theory that Pythagoras was able to create devices which bent space and time, long before the invention of the Six Rules of Time-Quantum, even travelled through time himself. I'm certain this is the key. I just need to understand it."

"You want me to help you?" Hermione frowned, turning to face the elder witch.

"You're said to be the brightest witch of our time. Surely, you're tempted?" Sophia smiled at her, tilting her head.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, glancing aside. "I'm on a holiday, and I left all my books at home, which makes me a rather useless research assistant," she muttered, forehead furrowed, while stepping away from the table.

Sophia waved her hand casually. "Minor details. I have collected quite a library already on the subject. Moreover, you can - use my fireplace to get your material. It's connected to the floo network."

"I also need to return to Britain for my seventh term, which will commence soon," Hermione commented dryly.

"Hogwarts' library has the best collection of available books about archaic items. Well, used to have. I heard it went through a heavy destruction during the war. A pity," Sophia muttered, seemingly unaware of her own words.

Hermione narrowed her gaze, glancing at the device and then at Sophia. "You could always ask anyone from Ministry's Department of Archaic, Magical and Lost Items. Their archives should be very extensive. And they would be thrilled about your finding."

"I don't trust the Ministry!" Sophia growled angrily, starting to pace across the room. "Not after the events with Voldemort. Not after they so scornfully turned me away."

Hermione hardly blamed Sophia for not harbouring warm feelings toward the Ministry of Magic. The Wizarding government hadn't really kept their promises, trying to hide the return of Voldemort, ruin Harry's and Dumbledore's career; and Hermione suspected more than a handful of people, sympathetic to Dark Lord's cause and those such as Umbridge, still worked in the organization.

"I appreciate your trust in my abilities," she started carefully. "However, even if I could help you, I have a busy year ahead of me, starting with N.E.W.T.s. I fear I have to say no."

"You're declining?" the woman stopped and asked. She leaned her hands on the table, looking at Hermione, incredulous. "I cannot believe this. Aren't you interested in learning the truth about time travelling?"

Hermione started to get annoyed at her persistence. "I've spent the whole last year on the run while hunting various magical items and risking my life for them. I have no wish to embark on a similar journey again. I'd rather have a normal school year, thank you very much, without the usual exposure to Dark Arts, dangerous spells and endless research on ancient artefacts." Her face softened and she glanced at the enticing items spread all over the research table. "But I am interested in the offer. I could do some long-distance work for you?"

Sophia frowned, not answering at first. "Well -"

"What have we here? A mudblood witch without her protectors!" They both looked towards the door upon hearing the unfamiliar voice speaking-._"Expelliarmus!"_

Like in a movie, Hermione saw her and Sophia's wands flying smoothly across the room, neatly landing in the waiting palm.

A group of three men, each well over forty, stood by the doorway. Their clothing could have been described, at best, as shabby and tattered. The one spelling her wandless stood in the middle, having distantly familiar features, madly gleaming eyes and a vicious snarl glued on his lips.

"You're not worthy to carry _her _wand," he spoke, a profound disdain in his voice, inspecting Hermione's wand.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Sophia demanded with a snap, and the man stepped closer.

"I have some unfinished businesses with that mudblood. You have bad taste in company, witch. I fear you won't survive that."

And then the memory, hazy and distant, made it's way to Hermione's mind.

"You are the one who they though drowned in the Canal! I remember you now from that night in the Department of Mysteries. You were with Malfoy and Dolohov. Jugson, wasn't it?" she gasped.

"That's not going to help you, mudblood!" he snapped.

"What exactly do you think you'd possibly achieve by killing me?" Hermione tried to buy time, mind racing franticly to come up with a plan. In her peripheral vision, she noticed Sophia shifting. Not daring to pay attention to her too long, Hermione returned her focus to Jugson and his comrades. She raised her chin. "It's not going to save you from Azkaban."

"I'm not going to kill you."

"You're not?" Her brow quirked, questioning the words. That was something she hadn't expected to hear.

"Yet," he corrected. "I'll have my revenge on you, mudblood, in due time. And I intend to make it a long pleasure," he snarled and the two other wizards, Death Eaters, approached Hermione and Sophia with a certain wariness in their movements. They feared her, she realized, though the thought brought her little comfort. Wandless, how could she be of any match to them? Barely having time to brace herself for the imminent experience, she saw his grip fastening on his wand, its tip starting to glow with red light.

"_Crucio!" _

Hermione screamed when the curse hit her and hunched down on her knees, the pain burning every fibre in her body. She would've thought going through the experience with Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor would have prepared her for this. But no. The pain simply was too much, too intense. She couldn't breath, speak or think. Hermione cried until she couldn't muster a voice out of her mouth. Her screams died off abruptly when the singing pain subsided. He had lifted the curse from her. Unable to do more, down on all fours, she panted for air, tasting the bitter blood in her mouth.

"Pitiful mudblood!" he snarled. "I never understood what made you so special! We should have killed you already in the Ministry!"

Despite the aching pain, Hermione let out a hollow laugh, a lame attempt of her Gryffindor pride, and screamed when he started torturing her once again.

She couldn't tell what happened then. Through the heavy mist of pain that blinded her senses, she thought she heard a sudden scream, a loud bang and clattering. The all-consuming pain subsided just as suddenly, and she heard Sophia's voice screaming at her.

"Get up!"

Half dazed, she obeyed, staggering to her feet, not truly realizing what was going on, or how she was able to move. She heard a shout, and then something whooshed pass her, exploding on the opposing wall. Hermione stared at the black scorch mark. At that moment, everything rushed back into her mind. Her senses registered the fallen table, the grey-haired head of Sophia hunched behind it; somehow she had a wand in her hand. Curses were flying across the room.

"_Deprimo!"_

Hermione barely ducked the spell that one of the ex-Death Eaters shouted. The force of the spell exploded with a loud bang, leaving a huge hole on the stone floor. The sound rang in her ears, and she gasped, blinded by the smoke.

"Hermione!"

Sophia threw something at her. It clanked loudly when falling on the floor - her wand! Blindly, forcing the ache and the ringing in her ears to the back of her mind, Hermione reached for it. She heard the woman shouting a counter spell, repelling another attack. Frantic, Hermione groped the ground and sighed when her fingers touched the smooth surface of wood. She grasped it tightly, noticing only then cold metal loops wedged within it. Not bothering to look closer, she yanked it off and felt thin metal lines slicing her skin. Oddly, they budged beneath her touch.

Everything started to spin and buzz. She heard Sophia shouting, like from a distance. Had she been hit by a spell? The buzzing grew stronger. She opened and closed her eyes, trying to focus her gaze. The room appeared to stretch and shift. Hermione glanced at her hand and recognized the Pythagoras' Device. Her blood covered the item; crimson red mingling with gleaming yellow, like a twisted Gryffindor emblem. The loops around the golden hub rotated slowly, and the marks on the surface shone red light, shifting and changing their place.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers letting go of the device, but she was too late. Her whole world exploded in white light.

She was still alive? Apparently so, Hermione decided as she heard a clink when the Pythagoras' Device landed next to her face, rolling further on the mahogany floorboard. Hazily, she wondered this. The floor had been stone, hadn't it? The device's circular rings had stilled, the flaming red marks were dark once again.

"In Merlin's name! What are you doing here?"

Hermione blinked when she heard the angry-sounding male voice speaking. She brought up her gaze, a bit too hurried. Her head still buzzed, making it difficult to focus her gaze. In front of her, she discerned a blend of red, blue and yellow: the figure of a man. She blinked, forcing the blurry environment to solidify, and gasped aloud, terrified.

This couldn't be happening!

Very much alive-looking Albus Dumbledore was facing her with his wand aimed at her head. He was wearing a comfortable looking bath rope and fluffy pink slippers. But his blue eyes shone darkly behind his half-moon spectacles as he repeated, taking a step closer,

"I asked you, girl. Who are you and what are you doing in my home?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and the movie is produced by Warner Brothers. I own my computer, my story, and that's it.

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

Chapter II

"This is quite an unusual situation, Albus," Headmaster Dibbet muttered, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at the magical paintings on his wall as if to get confirmation from the painted people. His expression darkened at the scornful snort from Phineas Black, and he turned his attention back to Professor Dumbledore and Hermione who were seated on the other side of the Headmaster's desk. "Not to say that I would object. The wizarding world has to be willing for provide mutual support during such difficult times. Besides, I've always thought about establishing closer connections to both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang." He gave Hermione a bright smile. "And your grades were quite impressive, Miss Greenleaf. Eleven OWLs. Indeed, it would be a pleasure to have you as our transfer student, Miss Greenleaf."

Hermione blushed and looked away, ill at ease. Not that she was embarrassed by her OWL results, but she had a nagging feeling she was forgetting something vital in the arrangements. This, Hermione decided, wasn't supposed to happen. If it wasn't bad enough to stumble unexpectedly half a century into her own past, she had to appear in Dumbledore's home. She had no idea how that was possible, and what would follow from it. Dumbledore wasn't supposed to know anything about her before the 1990s. She glared at Dumbledore sideways, still uncomfortable at the sight of him alive. Not to mention that he looked a great deal younger too.

It _was_ disturbing.

Hermione sighed. Had she had her say, she'd rather have figured out a way to return to her own time somewhere else. Like Diagon Alley, Dumbledore's home, or even that blasted island, Samos. But the wizard had said nothing about it.

Well, Hogwarts _did_ use to have the most extensive library about ancient magic…

"Splendid!" Dumbledore beamed next to her, unaware, or uncaring, of Hermione's dark thoughts. "I'll do the obligatory paper work and see that Miss Greenleaf has all necessary study material for her final school year."

The headmaster nodded in approval and smiled at Hermione kindly. "I'm certain you'll have an interesting year here with us, Miss Greenleaf."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Hermione answered, cringing inwardly. 'Interesting' wasn't the first on her list of possible descriptions. No. 'Bloody stupid', 'precarious', or even 'apocalyptic' matched her mood more.

They left the Headmaster's office, walking towards Dumbledore's study room in silence. The empty familiar corridors and intact, still standing walls and towers gave her the creeps. Last time she had seen Hogwarts, the castle had been in ruins. The term would start in a few days, and the students had yet to arrive at the castle. The thought of going to her old classes without her old classmates, not seeing Harry, Ron, Ginny, or even Draco, brought tears in her eyes. The sudden surge of loss nearly overwhelming her. She blinked to drive them away.

Finally, they reached Dumbledore's office. He closed the door and faced Hermione with a serious expression on his face, moving to his desk. "I hope that I can trust you to be able to keep your secret from the staff and the students, Miss_ Greenleaf_."

"I'm not stupid, Professor." Hermione frowned, taking a seat as well. "I am quite aware of the Time Aversion Law and its consequences."

A tiny smile appeared on his lip. "I'm not doubting your intelligence, Miss Greenleaf. However, time is a very volatile subject, and even the wisest of witches and wizards knows not what follows when one meddles with time." He stroked his beard, thoughtfully. "I have sent some queries to my affiliates, concerning your delicate issue, and expect to receive an answer in few weeks."

"You haven't found anything from the Pythagoras' Device? Something that could be used to reverse my appearance here, sir?" Hermione asked quietly, but Dumbledore only shook his head to her utter dismay.

"Unfortunately, not yet." He glanced at her sharply. "If I may have your permission, Miss Greenleaf, I would like to keep your device for further examination, for the time being that is."

Hermione shrugged, muttering. "Sure. Not that it was mine in the first place, even." Then, something else occurred to her. "Where will I stay? In the students' dormitory?"

"No. You'll be staying at the guest wing until you're sorted to your proper house."

"But I'm already sorted to -!" Hermione started to protest but was silenced by the tired gesture of her previous – future Headmaster.

"Please, Miss Greenleaf, I'd rather not know this."

His words hurt Hermione but she obeyed, biting her lip, and looked down at her hands. She could hear Dumbledore sighing.

"Even if the information would appear insignificant, I prefer knowing as little as possible about your previous arrangements, since they also happen to be my future. And the less I know, the less I have to obliviate myself. And in any case, I cannot place you in whichever House you deem suitable. It has to be done officially," he explained in a kind tone, and Hermione's face flushed with embarrassment. Of course, he would think something like that.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she muttered, keeping her gaze firmly on her hands. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

"I would appreciate that very much, Miss Greenleaf." Dumbledore's voice sounded weary. "Now, concerning your arrangements at Hogwarts, I will show you the guest wing after a while. The house elves have already transferred your luggage and will move it to your future house after the sorting has been done. I also prepared your curriculum based on the information you gave me. The final arrangement will be done, however, only after we know your house, since some classes are divided between houses."

"Of course, Professor," Hermione muttered, accepting the papers Dumbledore offered her. Glancing over the list, she felt some of the tension being lifted from her shoulders. Most of the requirements were the same as in the future, which meant she would be able to study for her N.E.W.T.s.

"I strongly suggest you familiarize yourself with the books and requirements, and do some of the schoolwork that was given to the students for the summer."

"Yes, Professor."

"Excellent! Just try to keep a low profile, Miss Greenleaf. I'm certain that we will get things sorted, and before you know, you'll be back in your own time."

For some reason, Hermione wasn't so sure about that.

(iii)

The great hall looked painfully familiar. The enchanted ceiling revealed the clear night sky and a bright moon sickle. The floating candles cast a soft glow around the room. Hermione fidgeted with her robe, repeating the lies she was about to share with her future classmates.

She dared to steal a glance at the students. They had yet to notice her, a lonely girl sitting at the end of the room. The house banners hung above the long tables: red-golden for Gryffindor, black-yellow for Hufflepuff, blue-brown for Ravenclaw, and silver-green for Slytherin. Her gaze lingered slightly longer on the Slytherin table before she tore it away. Everything was just as she remembered from her first year, starting from the appearance of the hall, ending with her apprehension.

Hermione realized Headmaster Dibbet had finished his speech, and was inviting Professor Dumbledore to bring forth the sorting hat. Faintly nauseous, she listened to Dumbledore call the new students.

Antonius Bowery…GRYFFINDOR!  
Mercedes Robbson….RAVECLAW!  
Marcus Yaxley…RAVENCLAW!

"Dear students and staff members," the Headmaster silenced the students. "I still have another announcement to make."

Hermione's hands clutched around the hem of her robe. She wasn't afraid, she assured herself. She'd done this already once. Besides, she'd faced a lot worse things in her life than sorting. If only her heart would believe that too.

"It is with pleasure that I announce we'll be having a transfer student from Beauxbatons joining us for this semester." She could hear curious murmurs of the students as they started to search for her from their seats. A few noticed her then, sitting near the main doors. They whispered, pointing at her. "She'll be attending the seventh year, and I dare say I'm pleased to have such an exceptional witch among us. Please, welcome Miss Jean Greenleaf."

The walk across the room felt like eternity and by the time she reached Dumbledore, Hermione was certain her face was burning bright red. She dared not look at the students, keeping her gaze fixed on Dumbledore and the shabby hat in his hands. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled and he smiled at her reassuringly as she took her place on the seat.

_Oh, how curious._ The hat's familiar voice filled her mind. _Apparently, you've been sorted already one time…a Gryffindor? _Why was the hat so surprised? _Miss Granger- Oh, I see. You prefer being called Greenleaf this time. Hmm, you know, I've sorted quite a few Greenleafs during my time? _

"Really?" Hermione feigned interest. Of course the hat would have done so. Greenleaf was one of the most common wizard names.

_Boasting's not very nice, Miss Greenleaf. I merely commented on your choice of name. It shouldn't surprise me though. After all, _she practically felt as the hat probed deeper in her mind, _you're a very smart witch, Miss Greenleaf. And in addition, resourceful, ambitious and clever. Yes, indeed. _The hat sounded way too smug for her liking.

"Just get on with it," Hermione thought darkly, annoyed at the hat's banter. "Please sort me back to my own house."

She could sense the hat chuckling. _Oh no, Miss Greenleaf. Hermione Granger might've been a Gryffindor, but this is not the case with you. No. I think it wouldn't be a suitable house for Miss Greenleaf, not at all. Ah, you have no idea yourself? Trust me, I was created for this task; and I've decided that your house shall be SLYTHERIN!_

No. This couldn't be right. She was a Gryffindor, goddamn it! Hermione stumbled up from the seat, barely hearing the cheers coming from the right-hand corner of the room. She glanced at Dumbledore desperately but he only smiled, ushering her gently away. Dazed, she took a seat next to the seventh years, scarcely able to meet their faces directly.

She, a Slytherin? This had to be a very bad joke.

"So, you're from Beauxbatons." She heard someone addressing her and looked up, meeting a lanky faced and dark haired wizard. Though he had an air of arrogance about him, he didn't appear entirely hostile. "Are you from France then?"

"No. My father's from Australia and my mother's from Britain," she answered automatically, the lie leaving her before she even noticed.

"And what do they do?" A girl next to her asked. She had a very pretty, heart-shaped face, and a nice little nose. Come to think, she reminded Hermione of someone. The high cheekbones, Hermione noticed, were a dead giveaway. A member of the Black family, perhaps?

"They're archaeologists," Hermione answered, the words flowing out of her mouth, and let out a small frivolous laugh, more terrified really. "They're obsessed about their work, travelling constantly, usually in Southern Europe. I spent the last summer with them in the Mediterranean while they searched for Atlantis." That, at least, was partially true. And as far as Hermione knew, Pieter Schoenburg, a German wizard and keen explorer, would discover the ruins a few years from now. So, she wasn't very concerned about changing history either.

"That explains the tan." The girl's smile looked honest enough as she stretched out her hand. "I'm Cedrella Black," she introduced herself, confirming Hermione's speculations.

She blinked before accepting the outstretched hand. "Nice meeting you, Cedrella." She heard her own voice. It sounded annoyingly meek.

"So, why did you decide to come to Hogwarts, Jean?" the brown haired boy asked while piling food on his plate. His skinny appearance would be impossible to believe, based on his appetite. "I've heard Beauxbatons is a good school."

"What Alphard here's trying to say is that they don't _yet_ accept mudbloods, unlike our beloved Hogwarts," a slim girl with her hair tied up in elusive rolls sneered, switching her place further from the table and sat next to the boy. She offered Hermione her hand with a tint of menace in her voice. "Rose Bulstrode."

The boy, Alphard, made a slight, resigned sound at the back of his throat while making some room for Rose. She snuggled closer to him.

"Delighted," Hermione muttered dryly, already starting to get sick at the introductions. "And, no, my parents thought it would be better if I moved away from the Continent for my last school year. They left for Mexico to do some excavation on the Mayan Empire and didn't want to worry because of me."

"You mean Grindelwald? That's new. I thought Beauxbatons was protected by Vlépontas charm so that no one would be able to find it," Cedrella commented slowly.

Hermione shrugged in a gesture she hoped carried indifference and arrogance, and scowled. If only Dumbledore had agreed with her about doing her research alone…

"I know. And it's not as if Beauxbatons would be the centre of his attention, but they didn't want to take any risks." She kept a small pause, smiling softly then. "However, Hogwarts has a good reputation, and I'm pleased to finish my N.E.W.T. here."

"Don't say you're one of those who actually enjoy studying?" Alphard groaned. The slight widening of his eyes, revealing his shock, and the choice of his words conveyed such a similarity with Ron that Hermione almost lost her self-control. She opened her mouth about to snap back at him her standard answer 'of course I do, don't be a moron' but swallowed down her words.

"Good grades secure a good job, I've heard," Hermione settled for muttering.

Rose smiled coolly, taking a sip of her drink and sniggered. "Our Head Boy might not be very pleased about that piece of information."

"Oh?" Hermione licked her lip, nervous, glancing at the Bulstrode girl, who was glued eel-like against Alphard.

"Don't listen to her, Jean," Cedrella snorted. "I doubt Riddle's interested in such trivial things as grades at this point in his life."

Riddle. Thankful that she didn't spill her drink, Hermione hastily lowered her goblet to the table. Hermione knew only one wizard called Riddle. _Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort. _All colour drained from her face, the shock nearly choking her. _I'm a moron. _How could she forget that particular information? Frantic, she started counting years. Naturally, Tom Riddle, born in 1926, would now be on the seventh year. Just like her.

The future Lord Voldemort was the Slytherin Head Boy?

(iv)

"Miss Greenleaf."

It took time to remember it was supposed to be her name.

Unable to dismiss the tension in her shoulders that had adhered to her since the sorting ceremony started, Hermione blinked and stopped. From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Cedrella glancing over her shoulder with the faintest of frowns on her face as if she had swallowed something rotten. Anticipating the worst, Hermione turned around in an unhurried manner and faced a tall boy wearing a Slytherin uniform. Every detail of his clothes was crisp and clean like they were never used. He was accompanied by a group of other boys, each of them dressed in Slytherin colours - and mostly ignoring her.

Why wasn't she more surprised by their lack of enthusiasm, Hermione wryly thought before glancing at the boy again. He didn't look that bad as Cedrella's expression suggested.

His black hair shone in the torchlight, framing the pale and even face, soft and slightly curly, tips touching his ears. Unfair long and dark eyelashes contrasted against silvery grey eyes. They flashed, briefly revealing an underlying darkness behind them before his gaze turned hooded. Somewhat flustered, she lowered her gaze to his chest. The Head Boy star pinned on his robes caught her eye, and an acid taste diffused through her desiccated mouth as if she hadn't been drinking for days.

_Of course. _

Just her luck.

"Yes?" she squeaked in the tiniest voice. Riddle quirked his brow and gave her a long look down his nose. The tension that radiated from her recent table companion impaired Hermione's already panic-reduced mental capacity as she gulped, repeating, with more gusto this time. "Yes?"

"Professor Slughorn asked me to make sure you'll be comfortable with your new house," he finally said, a ghost of a self-satisfied smile tugging his lips.

"That's very…nice of him," Hermione mumbled, her mind screaming at her in terror. _No. Certainly not nice! Scheming. Sly. Cunning. Anything but nice. _Her hand clutched around her wand, hidden in her robes, just in case Riddle started hurling curses at her. Instead, he offered her his hand.

His nails were polished and well tended, his fingers lean and delicate, Hermione noted vaguely. Perfect hands for weaving dark spells and breeding poisonous potions. Perfect hands for killing muggleborn witches – like her. Blushing, she realized she had been staring, her fingers tightly curled around the wand in her pocket. Cautious, she slowly released her grip and shook his hand, surprised of how warm and smooth his skin felt. Flinching as if the mere thought burned her, she jerked her hand back and retreated, resisting the urge to wipe it in her robes.

He dismissed her reaction and continued, his voice soft and smooth like a lubricant, dark and slithery and all possible things Hermione didn't want to recognize. "I would be Tom Riddle, the Head Boy."

"I can see the star." Hermione nearly bit her tongue as a flash of irritation flashed across his face. "I mean, I was told you were the Head Boy. It's rather impossible not to notice the badge." She took a deep breath, forcing her blathering mind to shut up.

"Truly?" He arched his brow, the look in his silvery eyes flat, his face empty of innuendos. But even the simple gesture conveyed enough to reveal his sudden suspicion.

"Oh, yes," Hermione choked out a nervous laugh, willing herself to stay in her place. "Heard you're Hogwarts' own celebrity. Best student in years."

"Right…" His gaze narrowed as he scrutinized her, and she gritted her teeth, sensing the silent condescension just beneath the seemingly friendly appearance.

"It's been a pleasure, Riddle. I'll surely remember to ask you if I have questions." She gave herself a metal kick for being reducing to blabbering again but was unable to control her hysteria. The icy silver in his eyes chilled her to the bone. "See you around." Someone could have said that the way she grabbed Cedrella's arm and left, pale as a ghost, resembled escaping. But she didn't care.

Only one thought burned her mind as she raced through the corridor. She couldn't tell if it applied to Tom Marvolo Riddle but Voldemort had been a master legilimens, and she had just stared straight into his eyes.

(v)

Tom watched after the two Black family members and Alphard's bony girlfriend, pondering lazily what would the latter of the Blacks say if he had a small chat with him concerning his pretty little cousin. He felt a mild ticking of curiosity. Alphard had always been a little unpredictable, unlike the rest of the Black family. Tom stole a glance at his companions before returning his gaze to the figure of the fourth member in the small group.

The surprising arrival of the new witch, Jean Greenleaf, intrigued him. Not the girl, mind you. Plain as plank, bushy haired and tense as a mouse, she was nothing special and, no doubt, wouldn't last in the Slytherin house for long. Tom smirked before his face turned expressionless.

No.

There was something else… The brief flash of terror that he detected on her face before she gained control of herself, her apparent caution, and the way she had clutched her wand, hidden in her robes, didn't strike him as the usual Slytherin distrust. He was certain that Miss Greenleaf knew something, had seen something, or was very perceptive. And that disturbed him. A very great deal.

Casually, he shrugged off the feeling. The girl was insignificant with no connections or familiarity with Hogwarts. He would keep an eye on her, and if she proved to be a troublesome lot... Well, Tom had his own methods to get troublesome lots out of his way.

Decision made, he turned back to his followers, gaze seeking the ashen coloured Abraxas from the rest. Malfoy's face was pensive, the colourless eyes more lucid than usual. No doubt, similar thoughts had crossed his mind too.

"Let's go," Tom simply said, nodding. New witches could wait. After summer, he and his gang had a lot of catching up to do. After all, this was their final school year together and Tom had very ambitious plans for the future.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** As usual, I don't own HP, JK Rowling does.

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

Chapter III

Hermione shouldn't have been surprised that listening to Professor Binns alive was just as tedious as listening to him while he was dead, if not worse. In the future, one could at least see through him to the magical paintings on the wall, all of them presently fast asleep. Hermione took a deep breath, glancing down at the book on her desk, and scowled at it. Enchanted to look like her dog-eared _Hogwarts: A History_, it was yet another useless tome about Greek wizardology without any references to Pythagoras, his mysteries or school.

She peered around, noticing the drooping heads of the students. Two Gryffindor boys across the room were immersed in a game of wizard chess. One boy's hair was such a flaming red colour that there couldn't be any doubt about the Weasley family lineage. Next to them a thin Gryffindor girl was perched on the edge of her chair. Sitting with her back so straight, it appeared to be a small wonder she had not tipped off her seat. The strained posture revealed clearly that she too struggled against the effects of Binn's lecture, also known as Binn's Private Sleeping Drought, as Harry and Ron had kindly renamed the history classes.

Seeing them, so close and still so far, felt like a painful stab in her heart. She missed the Gryffindor tower, its red-golden colours and vibrancy. Hermione sighed, tearing her gaze off the Gryffindor group. No, that wasn't quite right. She missed her friends.

Hermione glanced to her side. Alphard was snoring lightly behind her. Hearing the sound produced a thin smile on her lips. Also Cedrella's eyes had been glazing over for the last half an hour. Unintentionally, Hermione's gaze drew towards other Slytherins, namely towards the dark head of Tom Riddle.

Tapping her index finger on the book, she looked at him sitting next to flaxen-haired and sleek Abraxas Malfoy and small Jonathon Mulciber, her frown deepening. The other members of Riddle's ring hadn't continued the history class after their OWL results but it brought her little comfort. She still shared most of her classes with members of the bunch, and always with Riddle.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Her finger drummed against the book, her thoughts drifting to the boy in question. Riddle was, well, a paradox. When looking at him, Hermione found it hard to believe he would someday be that red-eyed monster, adamant in his ambition to kill Harry and destroy the whole muggle born population of the wizarding world. He looked so - - normal.

She broke her stare, realizing she'd been ogling him and that her frown had transformed into a scowl.

Hermione hated paradoxes. They offered no answers, just like Tom Marvolo Riddle.

With a sudden viciousness, she yanked the book back in her lap and started to shuffle through its pages as if the parched paper held the key to her uneasiness and a mere touch of it would obscure all of her disturbing questions. She strictly forbade herself to waste any more thoughts on Riddle. Riddle was evil. Plain and easy: evil. For the sake of her sanity and life she had to get away from the past and him, preferably as quickly as possible.

Nose in the book, she didn't notice the certain dark haired boy look behind, eyes thoughtful.

At the end of the class, Binns banged his book closed, causing a common jolt in the dozing students. While the classroom slowly started returning life, Alphard leaned closer.

"Did you know we have Quidditch tryouts after the last class?"

"I hope you're not asking me to take part," Hermione idly laughed while packing her bag. She casually noticed Tom Riddle hurrying out of the classroom with Malfoy and Mulciber right on his heels. Her eyes lingering on the doorway where the trio had disappeared, she continued. "You should be aware that I am to a broom what dragon scales are to a love potion."

"No one can be that bad," Cedrella snorted, getting up and joining the group of students who were stumbling towards the door.

Hermione pretended to think, following her. "No. Actually, I'm worse."

"So you won't be our secret weapon from Beauxbatons to defeat the Gryffindors this year?" Alphard sounded mildly disappointed.

"Hate to reveal my weaknesses in such a manner but I honestly think the team's better off without me. Besides, I have to go to the library after Transfiguration class."

"You can't be serious! School's barely started!" Alphard exclaimed and flashed a sly leer. "Even if you're not going to take part, tryouts have the comedic value the practices lack. More blood, broken bones and, most important, bruised egos."

"How charming, cousin," Cedrella commented dryly, matching her steps to their pace. "You truly make it sounding inviting."

"In the last tryout Walden Macnair was punched into the goal hoop and got stuck there for three hours. A work of some mighty nasty hex, if you ask me. And don't tell me that doesn't appeal to you?" Alphard defended himself before turning to Hermione. "They're looking for a new keeper, which makes it even more promising. You should definitely come, Jean."

"I got some extra work from Professors Merrythought and Slughorn to compensate for my missing summer homework. The description sounds lovely though." Hermione smiled apologetically.

Cedrella rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, and stepped aside as the Gryffindor group passed them, the Weasley ancestor brushing so close to her she dropped her bag on the floor, spilling all her material.

"Watch were you're going, Weasley!" she snapped angrily, kneeling down to collect her books, quills and papers.

"It's not my problem if you're too slow, Black." The boy turned, smirking with a very Weasley twin-like manner. His friends exchanged glanced and sighed exasperatedly.

Cedrella's eyes narrowed. "What's your problem, Weasley?" she hissed through her teeth while getting up on her feet.

"Your house," the great-ancestor of the Weasley line declared with his chin tight. "I don't like it."

Hermione winced at the hostile tone, slightly embarrassed. Surely, Ron and Harry didn't use to sound like that?

Cedrella's teeth clacked loudly together. "Too bad. I'm not going to change it."

They stared at each other with stony expressions and eyes gleaming before the stern-faced Gryffindor girl yanked Weasley by the arm. Hermione noticed only then a shiny Head Girl star on her chest. "Come on, Septimus. We have to get to the next class," the Head Girl muttered and pulled Septimus with her and their friend. Hermione could hear her voice, reprimanding Septimus, "I can't understand you, Septimus. The term's barely started and you're already at each other's throats!"

"But Mina! It's not my fault if…" his words got lost after the group disappeared behind a corner.

"Merlin, I despise Gryffindors," Alphard stated firmly, fixing the strap of his bag on his shoulder.

"Just forget him, Alphard. Septimus Weasley's not worth your attention." Cedrella sounded resigned, her eyes fixed on the corridor and holding some of the parchments against her chest. She shook her head and blushed for no apparent reason. "You're having transfiguration too?" she quickly asked, turning to Hermione.

"Yes. I've heard Professor Dumbledore's supposed to be one of the best teachers at Hogwarts." Hermione tried to banish the eager tone in her voice, knowing that Dumbledore was also the Head of Gryffindor.

"Damned bigoted fool, if you ask me. Never gave me higher than A," Alphard grunted.

"That's because your charms tend to have the nasty habit of exploding. And turning into unexpected hazards like that moulded slime, that is, if we're lucky," Cedrella sniggered, earning a casual wave of a hand.

"Totally off the mark! Give me a regular charm any day, and I'll do just fine. "

They started descending the stairs, the bright daylight entering the staircase through arched windows, which revealed parts of the courtyard and opposing Ravenclaw tower with its blue flags torn by the gusts of wind.

"Yes, as fine as Augusta White did in her OWL test."

"You're too cruel, Cedrella, to compare me with her," Alphard haughtily answered. "She surprised everyone, including Professor Monsoon. I lost a great deal of money then. Never would have expected her to try blowing up the Wizarding Examination Author's ears..."

"Indeed, I heard about the incident after Cygnus boasted he bought the whole Hog's Head empty with your money." Cedrella casually ran her fingers through her hair, flashing a smile at Hermione.

"Phh," Alphard only snorted and stifled laughter, noticing Rose leaning against the wall across the staircase's entryway. As dispassionate as his reaction was, he left their company and closed the distance between them. Their formality hit a chord in Hermione, and her brows furrowed. She took a quick look at Cedrella.

Arm snaked around Rose's waist, Alphard turned to look at Cedrella. "Just don't forget to come to see the tryouts."

"And miss the fun?" Cedrella wryly sniggered. "I'll join you in the stadium after class." She directed her next words to Hermione. "You're certain you're not coming? Alphard's right, it can be rather diverting."

"I cannot. I desperately need to study," Hermione assured, hoping the others wouldn't notice her somewhat forged smile. _Desperate _was the keyword. There had to be at least something available in the library, something that would aid her in her, Hermione reluctantly admitted, still rather fruitless pursuit to return to her own time.

"It's your lost." Alphard shrugged nonchalantly and departed with Rose, leaving Hermione with a sense of unexplainable regret and dejection. Had he been Ron or Harry, he would now be driving her crazy with his demands to express some House Spirit. Hermione had always hated their persuasion back in her own time, but Alphard's lack of enthusiasm wounded her.

Well, it was not as if she was here to make friends, she decided. Feelings pushed aside, she concentrated on the problem at hand.

She hadn't been totally truthful. Hermione allowed herself a brief smile while she continued with Cedrella towards Dumbledore's classroom. Of course, the chance to study under the tutelage of one of the most powerful wizards of her time thrilled her. But she also needed to talk to him in private, and the Transfiguration classes appeared to be her only way to meet Dumbledore without her classmates growing suspicious. Cursing silently her unfortunate circumstances, Hermione entered the class and took a seat next to Cedrella and another Slytherin girl – immediately in front of Tom Riddle and his goonies, she sourly noted.

(vi)

Having his mind made up about that particular Professor a long time ago, Tom hardly listened to Albus Dumbledore. The old fool ranted the first fifteen minutes about last year's lectures before actually allowing them to perform charms any third-year could perform. Bloody waste of time and skills, if anyone asked Tom Riddle. He stifled his scowl and concentrated instead on the brown bush of hair and the witch who owned that particularly unfortunate mane, fidgeting the golden ring on his finger.

She had been doing it again. Even Macnair had noticed the apparent dislike of Jean Greenleaf for Tom Riddle.

It maddened him. Just who did she think she was, that snip of a witch, coming from nowhere and giving the most prized student of Hogwarts those frosty glares? If she wouldn't take better care of her behaviour, other students would notice too. Maybe even question her about the hostility between the Slytherin Head Boy and her? His crucial unease concerned her doubtful information on his activities external to the Hogwarts curriculum. Even the slightest whisper and that would be the end of his unblemished reputation. He pushed the anxiety firmly away. He could not afford some unfortunate witch foiling everything he had built thus far. Jean Greenleaf had to be put in her place, as simple as that.

His thoughts interrupted, Tom jerked his head up and faced Dumbledore's bright blue eyes. As usual, their twinkle dimmed, and the Professor paused briefly.

"I urge you to employ the utmost caution as always with fire-related spells," Dumbledore reminded quietly, giving him one piercing look before turning away. "Sometimes, the victims might suffer a misfortune such as losing their hair permanently. A malady Astronomy Professor Sinpello can easily confirm," he addressed the whole class and was rewarded with soft giggles from a pair of Hufflepuff girls.

Tom perceived the movement of Jean's head when the girl nodded as if to confirm she understood the Professor's words and muffled his snort. The little witch actually believed Dumbledore? He detected the briefest hesitation before she reached for her odd dark and curved wand that rested on the table.

Curious to see how she would perform the spell, Tom leaned backward to get a better view of her.

"_Inflamare."_ She accompanied her soft whisper with a swift flick of her wrist, which was followed by a cluster of sparkling violet, yellow and rose-coloured fireworks that shot out of her wand, surging towards the ceiling. Her shoulders tensed as she pointed her wand to the sparks, guiding the shapeless spray of lights away from her classmates. The sparks started whirling around, first slow, then at an ever-increasing pace before settling into their final shape. The slackening of her arms and the soft breath escaping her lips revealed her relief when the shape of a phoenix, consisting of nothing but burning flames, spread its wings and glided across the room, a trail of fireworks following it. The other students froze, staring at the glowing bird that hovered above their heads, and Tom sensed the questioning looks his friends gave him. His eyes narrowed at Jean's flawless spell, his own wand motionless in his hand.

"Very good work, Miss Greenleaf," Dumbledore praised her in a surprised yet delighted voice. "I especially liked the touch with the phoenix. Ten points to Slytherin."

He could almost envision the pleased expression on her earnest face, and glowered.

(vii)

The other students didn't appear to have too much luck with the conjuration spell. Hermione noticed and briefly smiled at her phoenix-shaped fire, Dumbledore's praise still warming her heart. Despite the fact she hadn't always agreed with the Professor's methods, and certainly when it concerned Harry, she could understand Harry's eagerness to please the man. It was difficult to name exactly that particular feature that made Dumbledore so very special. His taste in clothes was less than impressive. The pink fluffy slippers Hermione had accidentally seen him wearing were a definite example of that. She had started to notice since halfway through her second year that Dumbledore suffered from a severe sugar addiction, which, from the point of view of a dentists' daughter, was evidence of an even more fatal flaw. He seldom used big words with which to emphasise the importance of transfiguration, Hogwarts, or his character. On the contrary, Dumbledore very rarely made any effort to display his power or importance. Yet no one doubted, regardless his unconventional robes, compulsion for sweets, or his jovial nature, that he was both a powerful and important wizard.

It grieved her to accept the unredeemable fact that the wizarding world was destined to lose him and she could do nothing about it. She wanted to warn him not to wear Gaunt's ring so foolishly. Not to blindly trust in his skills to conquer Voldemort's foul magic. She ground her teeth, the immerse weight of her insecure situation killing her good mood. The future lay on her shoulders, so perpetual and yet fragile. The sight of Tom Riddle's conceited face and the vague feeling of whirling foulness around him reminded her about that daily.

Hermione sniffed the smart smell of something rotten, surprised that her imagination could create so strong a sensation it even fooled her body; and screamed at the top of her lungs, the sizzling heat burning her scalp and the stench of her burning hair overriding all other thoughts. Panicking, she jumped to her feet, trying to smother her flaming hair with bare hands, the singing inferno making her eyes water.

She faintly heard the frightened yelps of other students and Dumledore's shout, and then a sense of sweet coolness descended on her. Crouched down on her knees with her blistered hands clasped around her scalded head and tears running down her face, she let out a whimper. The lilting pain ripped through her consciousness, partly replacing her shock. She forced down her nauseous choke, smelling a mixture of her scorched flesh, skin and hair.

Her hands throbbed from the scars her sizzling hair had blistered on her skin. But her head felt the worst, aching and burning, hurting so much she couldn't muster a word. She wanted to die.

"Mister Dolohov, see me in my office at five o'clock. Others – class is dismissed," Dumbledore announced in a loud voice, taking hold of Hermione's arm and told her encouragingly. "Come my dear, I'll take you to the infirmary. Miss Black, would you kindly take Miss Greenleaf's belongings and follow me?"

Hermione heard Cedrella answer but the meaning of her words slipped her mind as Dumbledore guided her past the stunned students out of the Transfiguration class.

She didn't clearly remember anything from the trip to the infirmary but Dumbledore speaking to her in a caring voice and Cedrella walking close to her. She could distantly recall a cry of surprise from the elderly school nurse before she - Madam Lystra? laid her on the bed and started tending to her. After two calming potions, one wound-cleaning potion, one pain-soothing potion and having her whole head and hands covered in orange burn-healing paste, Hermione started to feel calm enough to acknowledge her surroundings. Her burns still ached but the numerous healing potions and the spells Madam Lystra placed on her subdued the worst pain. Numbly, she stared at her gauze-bound hands and bit her lip, hot tears threatening her once again. She didn't need to look in the mirror to know how repulsive she looked with her swollen and scarred face, wrapped in the white gauze.

"You're lucky that your face didn't burn, dear," the nurse said as if sensing her dark thoughts, and pulled her body upright, having finished binding her hands. "With magical fire you never know what happens. It could have left a permanent mark on your skin…"

Hermione didn't answer, turning to look at Dumbledore and wide-eyed Cedrella, who was still hugging Hermione's bag.

"How are you feeling, Miss Greenleaf?" Dumbledore asked quietly, and Hermione was startled to notice he couldn't totally hide the worry in his eyes.

"Relatively fine, sir, considering... " She paused, scared at her hoarse voice. Maybe the spell had injured her vocal chords, or her hearing? She swallowed. "Thank you, sir."

He shook his head. "Think nothing about it, Miss Greenleaf. I'm duly sorry that this most unfortunate event should happen to you already in your first week at Hogwarts."

"I've experienced worst," Hermione grunted, thinking of her numerous run-ins with various monsters, Malfoy family, Bellatrix Lestrange and the Death Eaters before, during and even after the war. "No doubt that I'll survive."

"That's the spirit, my girl." He gave her a warm smile. "I'm certain Madam Lystra will get you in shape in no-time. She's a very capable medi-witch."

The witch humphed something that sounded very much like, 'if only my patients would be sensible enough to allow themselves to get healed.' The similarity with Madam Pomfrey had, mildly put, a distracting effect.

Unruffled by the medi-witch's sigh of exasperation, Dumbledore continued. " I will also talk with the student responsible for your serious accident later today."

Hermione couldn't totally hide her frown. _Mister Dolohov_, Dumbledore had said in the class. Anton Dolohov, Tom Riddle's goonie and Lord Voldemort's loyal Death Eater had caused her calamity? Dolohov only did what his lord told him to do, which was a more than alarming thought.

"I'm certain it was only an accident…" she dutifully muttered, hiding her unease, and looked down at her itching hands in her lap. She bit her lip, suppressing her desire to rip off the gauze and start scratching, and nearly drew blood from her lip.

"Even so," Dumbledore's answer was unusually sombre. "At this level I would expect my students to show more caution with their spells." He looked to his side and smiled unexpectedly. "I see that Miss Black still has your bag."

"Yes, sir," Cedrella muttered with a slightly dazed expression, then offered the bag to Hermione hurriedly. Her blush, when she realized Hermione was in no situation to take the bag in her own hands, amused the other girl a great deal.

"Maybe you can put it down on the floor, Miss Black?" Dumbledore suggested gently, and Cedrella obeyed, cheek now more crimson than the Gryffindor Common Room.

Hermione shifted, bothered by what Dumbledore had said in class. "I only hope that I won't remain permanently bald…." She muttered softly, and was somewhat surprised to see Cedrella's sudden smile.

"Oh, you refer to Si - I mean Professor Sinpello!" Cedrella stole a hurried glance at Dumbledore before continuing. "Don't worry, Jean. He's always been rather eccentric, and I heard from Alphard that he could have cured his hair but preferred to keep it the way it is now. Apparently, he claims to see the stars better without hair falling over his eyes."

"Yes, Miss Black has a point," Dumbledore confirmed. "I doubt you'll be bearing any permanent marks from the experience, Miss Greenleaf."

At that point, the nurse's eyes had narrowed into thin sickles, and she pointed at both Dumbledore and Cedrella with her wand, stating sternly. "That's quite enough, now. My patient needs rest. Off you go!"

"I'll come to see you tomorrow, Jean," Cedrella told, and then both she and Dumbledore were gone.

(viii)

The following day found her dazed, itching and in pain. From these three, the itching was the worst. On the previous evening, Madam Lystra had given her a double dose of Sleeping Drought but she kept on sleeping restlessly, tussling on the bed, her fresh burns smarting even through the enchanted sleep.

She waited for Cedrella to visit her as promised, but to Hermione's disappointment, she didn't appear during breakfast. Nor at lunchtime. She dozed for a while, grateful for the pain relieving potion the medi-witch had given her. When she woke up, the light was tinted with burned autumn orange, ochre and warm red, which dyed the opposite wall and the living paintings that hung on it. The scolding medi-witches of the painted universe moved around, pulling the shades to protect their patients from the direct sun, the white covers attaining in the reddish light even more otherworldly atmosphere.

Hermione's senses registered only then the tall shadow cast over the wall, the shape of a person sitting in the chair next to her.

She turned her head.

Tom Riddle, comfortably sprawled on the spider-like chair, with his arms tucked in his robes, tilted his head and flashed a shining white poster boy smile.

"Miss Greenleaf. How nice to see you awake," he purred.

"You!" Hermione's voice sounded hoarse and rough in her ears as if scratched against sand paper. She winced when a dull ache bore through her consciousness, the burns singing with fresh pain, muffling her thoughts. When had thinking became so damned difficult, she wondered somewhat lightheaded.

He moved on the chair, the sound and change of his body posture drawing her attention. He corrected his posture, pulling back his legs that the opening of his black robe exposed - long and draped in grey straight pants. Smoothing the fabric of his robe and the green-white straight tie before leaning closer, Tom Riddle asked. "How are you feeling, Miss Greenleaf - Jean?" His tone trembled as if he was worried.

_A lot better if you'd be out of my sight,_ she almost blurted out, gaining control over her wayward tongue just in time. The alternative wasn't much of an improvement, however.

"What does it concern you?" She cringed at her reckless words.

"You're my Housemate, and I'm the Head Boy, isn't it so?" he inquired, slightly amused.

"I'm touched." She closed her eyes, taking in a deep calming breath, and wished he would take it as a sign of tiredness.

"I also brought you your school assignments, thinking that you might appreciate being updated on your lectures," he continued blithely, ignoring her sarcasm.

"Oh." Hermione turned to him and noticed a pile of parchment in his lap only then. She didn't move to accept them, and Tom placed the papers on the table next to her bed. Hermione furrowed her brows and winced as her skin tightened, pulling the wounds on her head that the white binder covered. "Thanks," she muttered reluctantly.

"Don't mention it." He smiled.

She wondered why Cedrella hadn't visited her, something heavy sticking in her throat. Hermione stole a glance at Riddle and quickly returned her eyes to her palms, pretending to inspect her fingernails. The uncomfortable silence lay between them until he stood up, causing her to jolt.

"I'll drop by tomorrow, Jean," he said and swept away before she had time to come up with a remark.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** As usual, I don't own HP. JK Rowling does. But I hope, if she reads my story, she'll think, "Hey, what a great idea! What a fantastic story! I want to write something with the person!" I wouldn't mind getting some fame either.

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

Chapter IV

Her release from the hospital wing went uneventfully. Aside of Madam Lystra, no one was present to witness it.

During her sick leave, only her Head of House, Dumbledore and – Hermione scowled – Tom Riddle, had visited her. She didn't catch a glimpse of Cedrella, Alphard or his girlfriend during that time. She corrected her calculations, remembering the visit of Anton Dolohov, who had arrived with Riddle and Dumbledore, awkwardly apologizing for the accident, and given her a box of chocolate frogs.

She hadn't missed the irony of the situation, accepting an apology from the future Death Eater.

Hermione softly stroked the brown curls that replaced her lost hair, lost in thought. Professor Dumbledore had once enquired about the absence of Cedrella, but Hermione couldn't bear to reveal the truth. She had mumbled something incoherent instead. Based on the expression flickering in his eyes, she got the impression Dumbledore somehow knew already. Hermione's heart fluttered nervously. She wondered if the Slytherins had somehow learned that she was a muggle born witch.

She glanced at her image in the mirror, still slightly startled to see her changed appearance. The wounds had mostly healed, and her tender new hair hid those few scars that were to remain, decorating the skin of her scalp like pale snakelike marks beneath the soft brown curls.

"It's a bit different from earlier, I know," Madam Lystra sighed behind Hermione. "I thought it would happen. You never know how a body reacts when exposed to such strong and harmful magic."

She tried to smile. "It's not so much different. The colour's still the same. At least my head's not pink!" Hermione let out a sudden chuckle, remembering Tonks and her constantly changing wild hair. "Besides, it's a lot easier to maintain now. The main thing's I'm mostly scarless – and not bald." She turned to look at the nurse, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Such a brave lass!" The nurse smiled, turning away, which was when Hermione's own smile died.

She fingered her new hair, unsure whether to like or dislike it. It had always been a bit of an annoyance and she had often wished for a way to tame it. Now, the hair reached to her chin and instead of protruding in every possible direction, curled only slightly. She sighed, turning back to her reflection. Her appearance was the least of her worries.

Constrained in the hospital wing, Hermione had had time to think over her frequent encounters with Riddle The thought of snaring the Head Boy's attention was more than alarming. She had made sure that he couldn't know anything about her origins. Hermione felt confident about this. Then, why, Hermione frowned thoughtfully, walking from the hospital wing, did he suddenly pay her such notice?

"Ah, Miss Greenleaf! Just the person I was hoping to see!" She turned, recognizing Dumbledore's voice and her contemplations shattered. The man walked to her with his dark teacher robes billowing behind him as if he was the personification of Snape himself. "I trust Madam Lystra's tended you back into shape when I see you up on your feet already now."

"Professor," Hermione greeted the wizard. "Yes, she just released me from the hospital wing. I promised to visit her once a week, just to make sure there're no complications."

"Splendid! 'Tis a wonderful piece of news!" Dumbledore beamed. "And as you appear to feel so well, I would like to discuss with you some of the ideas you wrote in your essay about the possible uses of fairy dust in transfiguration. Would you have a minute?"

"Certainly, Professor," Hermione answered, blushing, and somewhat baffled by the request. She had written the essay during her sick leave, cursing her inability to visit the library and check the necessary books for her references. Riddle had brought her some material but Hermione had been reluctant to ask him for anything extra in fear of becoming even more indebted to him.

Scowling at her recurring thoughts of Tom Riddle, she followed Dumbledore through the corridors to his office.

He sat down in his chair, his brows furrowing before he started to speak. "Miss Greenleaf. I have received some answers concerning your -," he hesitated only a little before continuing, "situation and this…Pythagoras' Device."

"Oh?" She licked her lip, surprised.

Dumbledore glanced over her to the wall of his study. "It seems Pythagoras truly was able to create spells than bent the surrounding time-space quantum, as you were told."

"So the device is a time-turner?" she asked, somewhat relieved, and already starting to think of how to undo her trip to the past. If Sophia had been right and the markings were some sort of navigation lines, she only needed to figure out their meaning. She was relatively certain she could create a spell to recall how the settings had been in the first place. She could modify the spell that was used in creating a pensieve…

"Not entirely."

"What?" Hermione gasped, her previous plans forgotten, and granted Dumbledore a shocked glance. "Professor, what do you mean by that?"

Dumbledore sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking at Hermione oddly. "According to him, it is said, though never proved, that Pythagoras had a way to travel in time. He was said to travel widely in his youth, visiting various places seeking knowledge. During his travels, he came up with…certain knowledge and items that couldn't come from his own time."

"Yes?" She nodded, wary, not liking his tone at all.

"Well, apparently his inventions gave him prestige in his world, allowing Pythagoras to found a magical school somewhere in the Mediterranean in which he taught his followers."

"I read about it. His followers were sworn into secrecy, following very tight rules, developed by him," Hermione commented quietly.

He smiled at her. "Precisely, Jean. I see you've already gained some information about the subject. Then you must know that while his school gained importance, it also gained some enemies. Eventually, the school was attacked and burnt down, and Pythagoras was forced to flee. Devastated by what happened, he swore that no one would be able to use his magic ever again without a consequence. Whatever he did afterwards is lost to history, and nobody knows his eventual fate. But the legend tells he stored his powers in a golden locket, the size of a palm, and sealed it with a powerful curse. "

"Curse?" Hermione repeated weakly.

He opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. "I feared it might be the case when I touched the locket for the first time. It didn't feel dark in itself. Rather, I felt a protective spell surrounding the locket. However, when I tried to screen it, it rejected all my tries. I only succeeded in gaining some knowledge after I tried some very old magic on it, which is no longer practiced in the wizarding community." He fell into silence, bringing his gaze straight to Hermione. She started. His eyes were void of their usual twinkle. "It confirmed my suspicion that the latent magic in it had waited all these millennia, and was reactivated by your unintentional touch, or more precisely, your blood."

"Blood magic?" She nearly fainted. "You mean – Unbreakables?"

"I regret you are correct, Ms. Greenleaf," he said, apologetic. "The spell that brought you here, to this time, was a result of an unbreakable curse you activated in your own time."

Hermione's forehead furrowed. "But Unbreakables - they usually have a reason, a task, something the cursed is obliged to accomplish, or else…" She didn't continue, feeling the unvoiced threat hanging above her like the invisible Damocles' Sword.

Dumbledore sighed.

Tears filled Hermione's eyes when the realization dawned on her at last. "I won't be able to return home," she whispered, her shoulders slumping, and wiped her eyes. The thought of not ever again being able to see Ron, Harry, Ginny or her parents strangled her throat. "Am I doomed to die painfully only because some stupid Death Eaters tried to get their revenge on me?" she sniffed, tears starting to fall.

"Now, now, Ms. Greenleaf. Let us not sink into the pit of despair. You're still alive, and whatever the goal of the curse was, you have all the time in the world to accomplish it. The touch of your blood has broken the worst part of the curse, and I found no trace of it lingering in the Pythagoras' Device," Dumbledore comforted her. He opened a drawer and shuffled through it, lifting the golden locket into view. He looked at the shimmering item, sighing. "Whatever might happen in the future, your blood has now bound this to you, Ms. Greenleaf."

"I don't want it," Hermione huffed with wet eyes, the bitterness evident in her voice.

"Regardless, the Device belongs to you. It does no good to deny the undeniable. You are bound with powerful magic to the Pythagoras' Device, just as it is to you," Dumbledore gently persisted.

Something in his voice penetrated her woe, and she snatched the locket from his hand. The item felt cold, the spheres edging sharply against her skin. A dizzying sense of light and buzz took over her. For a moment, the study room ebbed away and Dumbledore's face faded. She heard shouts, thundering commanding voices and echoing blasts. She blinked, and the sensation disappeared. Only the silence of Dumbledore's office rang in her ears, the ancient walls emitting their relentless coldness.

Dumbledore eyed her gently. "I would keep it close and continue researching. But remember, you're living in this time. It might be good to accept this fact in case the spell cannot be remedied."

Hermione only nodded, slipping the golden chain over her head.

(ix)

"Cedrella! Wait!" Hermione hurried after a familiar looking blond-headed girl, having only just been released from another meeting - this time with her Head of House.

Cedrella turned. "Oh, hi, Jean."

Hermione stopped, out of breath. "Umm, are you alright?"

Cedrella turned aside, her face unreadable. "Fine. Madam Lystra let you out from the hospital wing, I see."

Suddenly unsure how to continue, Hermione furrowed her brow. "Look, I get that something must have happened…"

"You know nothing, Jean," she interrupted, swiping invisible dirt from her robes. "I'm sorry but I don't have time right now." She looked straight at her for the first time, attempting a feeble smile. "Good to see you up though," she said before rushing away.

Hermione stared after the disappearing figure, weary and worried. Just what exactly was wrong with Cedrella? She shook her head, lifting her hand to her chest and feeling the bulgy form of the Pythagoras Device beneath her clothes, the golden chain around her neck suddenly throttling her. She let her arm fall on her side and briskly started walking in another direction.

Entering the silent library calmed her nerves. The room was devoid of other students apart from a pair of Ravenclaw girls sitting in front of a table, their heads buried behind schoolbooks. She gave a distracted nod to the librarian while heading for her old favourite place in the back of the room and, knees bending underneath her, sat down on the chair.

Hermione stared at the rows of shelves, blinking away tears of rejection and humiliation. Cedrella's abandonment hurt her more than she wanted to admit. She sniffed, wiping her nose and feeling absolutely miserable. Why was Cedrella avoiding her? It couldn't be, Hermione deduced, other students learning about her invented family roots. She hadn't given away any signs, had guarded herself and held her tongue as well as she could. Even the name she had selected as her own, Greenleaf, was a known wizard name. Not pureblooded, of course, but a wizard name still.

Hermione realized with a sinking feeling that name and blood was the only thing that mattered to Slytherins. She couldn't forget the contempt Valburga Black and Serena Crabbe hadn't even tried to hide after they learnt that their new roommate's parents didn't own big estates, weren't influential, or famous. She had very little with which to impress the others, no connections or rich family.

Hermione had believed Cedrella was different. Apparently, she had been wrong. At the moment it seemed unlikely Hermione would ever be accepted as a Slytherin.

_Stupid Slytherins_. _Who needs their approval, anyway? _Hermione sniffed again, glowering at the bookshelves. She would show them and get new friends._ But… _Her gaze narrowing, she started pulling her hair while her brows furrowed in a deep frown. Crosshouse friendships, especially those between Slytherins and the other Houses, were rare occasions.

Why the Sorting Hat had decided she would be suitable for the Slytherin House was a mystery. Her new housemates appeared to avoid her like a plague, excluding Tom Marvolo Riddle, while other students apparently only considered her as another sly, wicked and untrustworthy member of the species.

Albus Dumbledore's worry seemed so stupid. Hermione doubted she could even slightly alter the future, not when she had no one to talk to. She fought back the tears of self-pity, hating herself for feeling like this. What had happened to the old Hermione? She didn't care about other people's opinions, not any longer. Hadn't she already learned that lesson?

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Hermione settled for groaning.

"Homesick already, Jean?" Hermione jolted at the smooth voice. The mocking question aggravated her more than scared her. What did he know about homesickness anyway, coming from an orphanage?

"That's none of your business, Riddle," she snapped before got hold of her tongue.

"Tsk, tsk. That wasn't very friendly, Jean." He clicked his tongue, taking a seat next to her. The light coming from the window behind him illuminated his fine features, inviting her to accept his almost angelic appearance at face value. "And haven't I told you already to call me Tom?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Sorry, Tom. I'm not having a very good day."

He arched his eyebrows questioningly, turning to her. "Care to tell me why so? Maybe I can help."

Stiffly, Hermione forced a smile and felt it was more a frown. He appeared to buy it, however. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to rewrite last week's transfiguration essay." Her words sounded like someone was pulling out her teeth, and she blushed, appalled at having to reveal this – of all possible people – to Tom Riddle.

Well, better this than confess the truth to him. That she had learnt only a moment ago that she was stuck 50 years in the past, under a millennia old curse, and her only friend in this time had just decided not to talk to her.

"How awful. I told you the spell's a tricky one and needs good references. I know the library like my own pockets and could give you a hand, if you wanted," he said, sounding almost uninterested. But there was something in his voice that made Hermione want to give him another glance.

She hesitated. Every time Tom Riddle had offered to help her, she had turned him down. Maybe that was the reason why he appeared to be so interested in her? Tom Riddle was a model student, liked by everyone. She had no reason to avoid him, not when he hadn't given her any cause to think otherwise. She didn't want to make him suspicious.

Facing him, she failed to notice how she continued tugging her hair again. Could it be she had been wrong? Maybe it had been an accident, not Tom Riddle's machination, that she ended up in the infirmary? After all, Anton Dolohov had apologized her. And Hermione couldn't forget the steely glint she had seen flickering in Tom's eyes as he stood behind Dolohov, making sure Dolohov fulfilled his task.

He had acted friendly towards her, enough to come to meet her each day during her sickness… And Hermione had to admit, she was curious to know what drove Tom Riddle to pursue immortality so intently he was willing to give up his humanity and become Lord Voldemort.

She had used a time turner one year without getting caught, Hermione reminded herself. She might be able to learn something no one else before her had known, and if she was careful, she could do it without jeopardizing her future.

Tom Riddle returned the stare, face impassive.

"Thanks. I'd appreciated that…Tom," Hermione said at last.

After spending more time in the library, little by little, Hermione's nervousness started to fade. She still avoided looking him straight in the eyes, but wasn't feeling so tense or frightened. True to his words, he had searched for her additional material, accompanied with some very helpful tips. They had discussed briefly the nature of conjuring, finding out they shared surprisingly similar views about the theory behind the spells.

Almost ashamed, Hermione realized she found his company agreeable – never mind that his friendliness had to be a facade. But she couldn't deny her pleasant surprise when he understood her, even when she cited some of the books or theories she had studied, providing compelling arguments back at her. To silence her bad thoughts, she cut short their theoretical discussion, and started to work with her essay.

"That's an interesting necklace you have."

Hermione looked up, startled at the sudden comment. His expression was as neutral as always but Hermione didn't like the gleam she perceived in his gaze. She touched the Pythagoras Device that had come loose from beneath her clothes, swaying in front of her chest.

"I got it as a present when I came here," she muttered uncomfortably, remembering Tom Riddle's obsession with artefacts and other ancient items. The golden loops encircling the hub felt ice cold against her fingertips as she stuffed it back inside her robes.

"It appears to be quite old," he commented slowly.

She smiled forcefully. "I - my parents dug it up some time ago in Greece."

"Do you have any idea to whom it might have belonged?"

Hermione shrugged and looked back at her books, picking up her quill. "My mother thinks it belonged to Helen of Troy, my father believes Alcibiades owned it, and I decided long time ago not to guess anything when it comes to history. Someone always has a new theory to give as an explanation."

She could sense Tom's dissatisfaction, but he refrained from asking more questions and continued his work across the table. After a while Hermione let out a sigh she had been holding, starting to relax. She stared at the parchment in front of her, trying to focus on the spell's theory. Instead, she could only think about the boy facing her.

The question, as innocent as it had been, had rattled her more than she could have guessed. She glanced at Tom and his dark-haired head bent over his homework. His feather quill rustled against the parchment as he inscribed with elegant handwriting the essay he had been working on after helping Hermione find books for her transfiguration essay.

Her eyes fixed on his gleaming ring and acid-tasting bile accumulated in her mouth. She swallowed it down, unable to rip her gaze from the black-stoned jewellery adorning his finger. Tom wore Gaunt's ring. It meant he had already killed his father and maternal grandparents, and framed his uncle of their murder. How long ago had that been? A week before school started? A month?

Feeling suddenly nauseous, she started piling her stuff together.

He interrupted his work and looked up. Something in her face must have given her away, since his eyes narrowed as he asked. "Is something wrong, Jean?"

Hermione couldn't gather a word, shaking her head. "No. I only…I need to go to the dormitory. I forgot some of my books."

He blinked. "You can borrow mine, if you want to."

"Umm, thanks, Riddle," she mumbled, pulling herself upright. "I, um, I'm not…I just need to go. I'm sorry. See you later."

Without waiting for his answer and before she could say something even more idiotic, she spun around and hurried away, her cheeks burning. The sight of the ring had felt like a bucket of cold water. Icy shivers travelled down her spine as all those things she knew Lord Voldemort had done - was going to do returned to her mind.

Stupid her, thinking even for a while, he could be something more.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** As usual, I don't own Harry Potter. Not even all the books. What I'm trying to say is that J.K. Rowling has created this fantastic world and its characters, and is kind enough to allow us to play with them.

Chapter V

"Can anyone explain what makes Mandrake Draught such a fantastic reviving elixir?" Slughorn's gaze swept over the classroom, fixing on Hermione and Tom, who sat side-by-side in the front row. He smiled widely at the sight of their uplifted hands. "Miss Greenleaf, go ahead."

Hermione glanced at Tom, answering. "According to Malyon Garley, the juice of their roots, otherwise harmful to humans, has when handled in a right way - that is, boiled in a bronze kettle and distilled thrice, a reviving effect. The Mandrake juice forms an essential part of most antidotes, including one used for Petrification, and it returns people who have been Transfigured or cursed back to their normal form."

Her satisfaction dimmed when Tom lifted up his hand. "I would like to correct Ms. Greenleaf. It's the cry of the Mandrake that is fatal to humans, not its juice. The juice is rendered useless unless treated in the way Ms. Greenleaf just explained, so that it retains all its magical qualities."

"Excellent! 10 points to Slytherin." Slughorn beamed. "It appears we'll be having a tight competition this year between you two, Miss Greenleaf and Mister Riddle." He turned to the rest of the class. "Mandrake Draught is indeed one of the most powerful reviving potions, so strong the pure juice itself can revive a petrified victim. Next, I would like to hear how a person could be petrified? Mister Bones, maybe you could give an example?"

Hermione scribbled down the different potions and methods the students listed, slightly annoyed to notice how little Tom appeared to pay attention, lounging in his seat like a king. "Don't you take notes?" she finally snapped under her breath, half-attentive to Slughorn as he addressed the Gryffindor Head Girl.

Tom smiled at her, lazily. "Why should I? I know every answer already."

"The point is not to demonstrate how much you know, but to share," Hermione reminded quietly, trying to remember what had been the name Slughorn had called the Head Girl. She pinched her mouth shut when Slughorn turned to them.

"Miss Greenleaf? How about you? What petrifying potions or items do you remember?"

The question surprised her, not to mention her annoyance with Tom. For one frightful moment, her mind echoed as though empty.

"A Basilisk's stare." She heard her own voice, and almost cut off her tongue the moment the words escaped her mouth. Slughorn's face turned blank, and she sensed Tom tensing next to her so quickly it felt almost unreal.

"Hrm, well…" Slughorn muttered, scratching his head, surprised.

"A Basilisk's straight stare kills its victim, but if met through a mirror or other reflecting material, the victim is petrified instead of dying," Hermione continued, thinking about her experience during her second year. She sensed Tom's keen attention, having pulled his back straight from his earlier comfy position. Hermione forced herself to ignore that, for the time being at least. "Mandrake Draught is the only suitable cure for those who have been petrified by a Basilisk, sir."

Slughorn opened and closed his mouth, and then a wide grin spread over his lips. "True, true, Miss Greenleaf! 10 points to Slytherin, again! Beauxbatons must sorely grieve for losing such a talented student." He graced her with a long look before turning around.

"Care to tell me what urged you to say that particular form of Petrification?" Tom asked quietly, snaring Hermione's attention. Face blank, eyes half closed, nothing gave away his ulterior motives. She swallowed her nervousness, gears turning in her head as she gazed down at her book, collecting her thoughts.

She shrugged. "I've spent so much time with professional historians. Basilisks are one of the oldest known beasts, you know?"

He only nodded, thin-lipped.

Hermione gulped down her scowl. Since the incident in the library, Hermione had noticed that she was talking to Tom more often than she preferred. She couldn't say he tried to behave like her friend, if he even knew what the word meant. As far as Hermione could tell, Tom Riddle had no friends. Even those people in whose company he could most often be seen behaved like members of some private club with Tom as the leader. And Hermione couldn't say that he sought her out. Rather, she was the one stumbling upon him in odd places and in the most unexpected times Like the other night, when she was returning from the Astronomy Tower and her face almost collided with his chest.

She sighed, rolling the quill in her hands.

Cedrella still gave her a wide berth, like her cousin. Even Alphard's annoying girlfriend appeared to avoid Hermione.

Today, for Hermione's annoyance, Riddle had come to her before class started, asking her if she had found a book he loaned to her useful for her Potions essay. At that precise moment, Slughorn entered the classroom, ordering everyone to sit down immediately. Tom's goonies didn't appear happy that he had to abandon their company, even if Slughorn's eyes had gleamed in a way that sat badly with Hermione when the professor noticed her sitting next to Tom.

Hermione squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, trying to guess reasons for Tom's sudden friendliness. There were far too many options, and none of them put her at ease.

"For this assignment, I ask you to form a pair with the person you're sitting next to."

Her thoughts stirred, Hermione turned on her seat, seeing only the backside of Slughorn's black teacher robes and his dark brown-haired head as he walked across the aisle between desks. She had heard him wrong, hadn't she?

"You are to choose and blend one petrifying potion and an antidote for it. Individual grades are to be based on overall results, meaning that you will get the final grade based on the joint work, not your own." Slughorn's gaze swept over Hermione and Tom. "You should remember that you will work with your partner until the end of the semester," he said, smiling.

Hermione didn't dare glance at the boy by her side, clinging to her quill with trembling hands. Paired with Tom Riddle for a semester? Merlin save her! Hermione scowled, burying her head in her book while pretending to search for potion recipes, and avoided Riddle's probing eyes. Hermione clenched her fist, forcing down her sudden anxiety. Not a person to believe in divination, she still had a very bad feeling about this. Had Tom known Slughorn would pair them today? She couldn't but wonder.

The rest of the class went by in a blur, and she awoke from her daze, realizing Slughorn had just announced the class dismissed. Not trusting her own reaction, she curtly nodded at Riddle when he suggested they should meet in the library after classes. The worst part was that the git had the nerve to appear amused at her lack of reaction. He didn't wait for her, hurrying out of the classroom, Malfoy, Dolohov and others by his side.

Hermione sighed, closing her eyes, and started to pack her books.

"Miss Greenleaf. May I have a word?"

Hermione tensed and looked behind her. "Yes, sir?" she muttered, staying obediently next to her desk.

Slughorn placed his hands behind his back, taking a step closer, and Hermione could swear she detected a calculating glint in his eyes.

"I've noticed, Miss Greenleaf, you have, shall I say, a knack for potions," Slughorn started.

Hermione bit her lip, inspecting the floor as if seeing something interesting in the patchwork of the stone floor. "I only enjoy studying, sir. It's not so much about being talented than reading the instructions, sir," she mumbled with an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach.

"What do I hear? A Slytherin should never value herself too little," Slughorn reprimanded.

Hermione cringed and corrected herself. "No, of course not, sir."

"I understand, being new at Hogwarts, the castle, new faces and classmates, not to mention your unfortunate accident in Professor Dumbledore's class, must feel a little startling. It is absolutely reasonable to feel insecure, Miss Greenleaf. I do remember the time when I first stepped through the gates of Hogwarts. I dare admit I was an eensy-weensy bit afraid myself too…"

"You're very kind, sir." Hermione forced a smile with a stiff jaw while looking down bashfully.

"I'm sure you'll fit in perfectly, Miss Greenleaf. And I'm glad to notice that you appear to get along with our Head Boy."

The smile was now plastered on her face and starting to hurt her muscles. This ridiculous act making her feel sick.

"Oh, it's nothing. He must be friendly with everyone, being a Head Boy and all," she said, mumbling, clutching the straps of her bag. "Sir, did you have something in mind? Since I need to get going to my Defence Against the Dark Arts practise class."

Slughorn woke up from his reveries and shook his head. "Oh, yes. I only wanted to confirm that you're doing well and adjusting to your House?"

Hermione nodded, wary.

"I'm also pleased to have a new talent in the Slytherin House. I'm certain you and Tom will make a formidable team. He's the best in the class, but with your appearance," Slughorn chuckled, "I think he might have a competitor at last. I'll be following your progress with keen interest, Miss Greenleaf."

Hermione left the class, her thoughts in a blur. Did she imagine it or could it be that Slughorn might try inviting her to his Slug Club? She almost growled aloud while she stalked the corridors, her thoughts on the Professor's praise of Riddle. She was certain he was part of the Club like an old couch.

"_Dirty mudblood!"_

She slowed down, her heart jumping into her throat at the sudden shout, and glanced behind her. She didn't see anyone, and tilted her head, wondering if she had imagined the words.

"_Get off me! Or I'll…"_

"_What, mudblood?"_

No, the voices were real. And they were coming from around the corner in front of her. Hermione continued forward and stopped.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" she asked in a cold voice.

A pair of lower year Slytherins quickly released their victim. She detected a small boy with light brown hair and ruffled robes behind them. Hermione searched for his name before she got a glimpse of red-golden tie: Bowery, a first year Gryffindor.

The Slytherins relaxed after recognizing Hermione as their Housemate and grinned wickedly. The other, a chubby, round-cheeked boy, took a step closer. "Just teaching this mudblood a lesson," he answered, sneering.

Hermione crossed her arms and regarded the boys icily. "Oh? You better forget that lesson, or I'll have to inform Professor Slughorn about this behaviour."

The shock on their face was almost priceless, their mouths hanging down. "But-? You're a…"

"Which part didn't you understand?" Hermione interrupted, pulling her wand from her pocket. "I said leave him alone – now! And Merlin forbid, if I catch you teasing him, or any other student again…"

The other boy, sleek and slim and wild-eyed, spat. "Mudblood lover! Where is your pride?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at the immature threat, tapping the wand in her hand. "I don't share your idea about pureblooded pride. You're only making asses of yourselves, and I have no desire to lower myself to your level. Don't make me report this to our Head Boy," she added as an afterthought.

They let out an angry hiss, but obeyed. Apparently, mentioning Riddle had been a good idea, Hermione thought with vague interest, her gaze fixed on their disappearing backs. She turned to look at the young Gryffindor.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked.

The boy stared at her with wide, frightened eyes.

Hermione sighed. "Just ignore their mudblood comments. They don't know what they're talking about. Your blood is exactly as pure as any Malfoy's, Black's or Goyle's. Those who claim otherwise are simple and narrow-minded fools."

The boy didn't answer, spinning unexpectedly around. He started running in the other direction, leaving Hermione alone. She shook her head, stuffing her wand back in her pocket, and muttered. "I don't know why I even bother…"

She tensed then, detecting movement in the corner of her eye. Her wand was back in her hand before she even knew it. She relaxed when she recognized the Gryffindor Head Girl, who was looking at her with an odd expression.

Hermione smiled, nervous, but the girl didn't return the smile, watching her with narrow eyes.

"You're the new Slytherin girl, Jean Greenleaf?" she asked at last.

Hermione gave a hesitant nod.

"Why did you…? Never mind. You said you don't believe in the distinction between pureblood and muggle born wizards?"

"I don't," Hermione admitted, shrugging. "All that talk about blood purity and such. It's a stupid idea. Where do you think the first wizards came from? The earliest mark of human civilization dates as far back as 10,000 years ago. Somehow, along the way wizards appeared, and I assume most likely as an offspring of a primitive muggle man. I honestly think they should have evolutionary theory as an obligatory course in the schools."

The Head Girl stared at her, eyebrows raised. Suddenly, her stern expression broke and she gave Hermione a wide smile. "You're not like your Housemates," she said, amazed.

"I rather like to think so too." Hermione agreed.

"Well, thanks for helping my young Housemate. Please forgive him his rudeness. I bet he didn't expect a Slytherin to help him." The Head Girl stepped forward, offering her hand. "I'm Minerva McGonagall."

Hermione barely contained her shock, accepting the outstretched hand. "_You're _the Head Girl!" She winced at the words, but luckily, prof- Minerva didn't notice anything odd in her exclamation.

"Yeah, I assume they wish us to form cross-house alliances by giving Head Student statuses to opposing houses. Don't know if it really helps, though Riddle's not a bad choice. Pretty decent bloke, actually."

Hermione swallowed, trying not to look too shocked. "He gives a decent impression of himself, at least," she muttered.

Apparently, Minerva didn't find anything weird in her words. She laughed and winked. "Oh, yes, he does. I guess that must have something to do with his Slytherin cunningness, making us all fall for his charm. Not that I would admit any Slytherin could be charming."

Too baffled, Hermione didn't know how to respond. Luckily, teenage Minerva appeared to be much more open and talkative than the professor Hermione had known. "Hey, Jean. Don't you also have Defence Against the Dark Arts?"

"Merlin," Hermione gasped, squeezing her bag, already on her way while trying to decide which would be the fastest way to the classroom. "I totally forgot about it!"

"I know a short cut, Jean. Just follow me!" Minerva passed her, signalling her to follow.

"Oh, great Minerva!" Hermione hid her grimace, remembering that she wasn't supposed to know the castle. She definitely ought to watch her words and behaviour more closely.

(x)

The classroom had been stripped bare of desks and chairs, and a thick cloth covered the centre of the stone floor. Hermione stopped at the door, relieved that Professor Merrythought had not yet arrived. She hated being late for class. Only when her breathing had slowed down, her senses registered the bareness of the classroom. The students were standing outside the circled area, in small groups, each only consisting of students of the same House. Sighing, she joined the green and silver colour of Slytherin, casting a withering look after Minerva, who was walking towards her Gryffindor friends.

She caught an angry look on the Weasley boy, Septimus' face before turning her attention to her Housemates, and noticed Cedrella standing next to Alphard also staring at her. However, when their eyes met, Cedrella quickly averted her gaze. The small pleasure that meeting Minerva had caused quickly evaporated.

Nearby, dark-haired and haughty Valburga was speaking in a low voice to Rose. Chubby and short Serena Crabbe stayed behind Valburga, like her shadow.

"…that she heard it while fitting her new gown at Madame Sharpneedle's."

"Oh, but what about the Ministry? What do they say they'll do?" Rose asked, her voice suddenly sounding nervous, and she glanced over her shoulder.

"The Ministry? That group of stupid old goats! What do you think? Of course, what they've ever been able to do. Cowering behind their walls! Filthy mudblood-lovers!" Valburga nearly spat the words, hissing, and Hermione could envision her burning eyes. Sirius' mother truly was a nutcase, Hermione decided, shuddering. However, she felt a tickling of curiosity, wondering what the girls were talking about. She tried to get closer without being noticed.

"I say, good if that happens. At least he has his mind set on _respectable _goals! This country is crowded with all kinds of vermin and pests, rats polluting its soil, making it weak. It needs a strong leader, someone with a clear vision on how to return its purity." Valburga shut her mouth with a snap when Professor Merrythought entered the classroom, her eyes narrowing as she noticed Hermione standing nearby. Then, she smiled a cold and terrible smile at her. "He will get rid of the rats, all kinds of rats. Trust me. And when that happens, everything will be so perfect…"

Hermione forced herself not to flinch at the words, returning Valburga's gaze. All the while, her heart was hammering in her chest frantically. Professor Merrythought greeted the students, starting the class, but Hermione's thoughts were miles away. She could hear the elderly Professor talking but the meaning of the words escaped her.

Valburga couldn't mean that Grindelwald was somewhere in England, could she? Dumbledore was supposed to go searching for Grindelwald only later. Their duel was bound to take place in spring. It couldn't be that Gellert Grindelwald was suddenly trying to take over Britain. She furrowed her brows. Grindelwald feared Dumbledore too much to return to England. She was certain she would remember if _Hogwarts: A History_ had mentioned anything on the matter. So, what did the girls mean?

A sudden coldness went through her heart. It took all her willpower to slowly turn away from the cold and sneering face of Valburga Black only to notice Tom Riddle was standing next to her, watching her through his icy eyes. She stepped back, holding onto her wand.

"What do you want, Riddle?" Hermione hissed through her teeth.

Something in his face, or maybe in the way a shadow crossed his eyes, froze the blood in Hermione's veins.

"_Tom_, Jean. _Tom._ I thought we already agreed to be on a first name basis?"

She remembered then where she was and could feel warm red spreading over her cheeks. Hermione lowered her arm, realizing her paranoia was getting the better of her nerves and that most of the class- was watching them now. "Uh. I…"

"Miss Greenleaf, I said you could start the duel with your partner only when I told you so!" Professor Merrythought interrupted, striding closer with her dark teacher's robes swelling behind her. "I do not know how you- used to duel at Beauxbatons, Miss Greenleaf, but here at Hogwarts, we pay heed to safety so as to avoid hurting our classmates! If you have a problem following that rule, I have to demand to have your wand," she continued sternly.

"I'm sorry, Professor! I didn't mean to," Hermione started, panicking. As if being chastised by a teacher was not enough but also to lose her wand now, of all possible places and moments…

Merrythought turned to Tom. "Mr. Riddle, what happened here?"

He returned her look with a small, polite smile on his face. "I believe the blame is mine, Professor. I took Miss Greenleaf by surprise, telling her to take up her wand. Naturally, she obliged."

Hermione couldn't believe her ears and only barely kept herself from gagging. In Merlin's name, what was he doing?

Merrythought's eyes narrowed as she regarded Tom, glancing then at Hermione. "Hmm, if you say so, Mr. Riddle," she exhaled. "And you, Miss Greenleaf. You'd better take care not to point your wand at any innocent person that comes close to you. You understand?"

"Yes, Professor," Hermione muttered, bowing her head. Her jaw tightened. Tom Riddle: an innocent person? When she looked up, Professor Merrythought had turned her back to them, dividing the Hufflepuffs into pairs of duelling partners.

"Why did you lie for me?" she hissed at Tom, who shrugged.

"I felt like it." The answer left Hermione feeling unsatisfied. She nibbled her bottom lip while staring at Tom, who tilted his head, his eyes masked, and added softly. "Don't try that on me again, _Jean_." The way he pronounced the name sent shivers running down her spine. She clenched her teeth, fighting against the urge to cower in front of him. He was not yet Lord Voldemort.

"I don't like people sneaking behind my back," Hermione retorted with her chin held high, but her voice lacked its usual vigour. A nagging voice inside her mind was trying to get her attention.

Tom's eyes narrowed at her and a shadow passed his features, so quickly Hermione could have imagined seeing it. He relaxed suddenly.

"I see."

The odd smugness in his voice made her wary. What could he see, she wondered? But Tom's face was blank, concealing the intrigues of his Machiavellian mind. Hermione's contemplations shattered suddenly. She heard Professor Merrythought speaking -.

"Miss Greenleaf, Mr. Riddle. Please take your position on the arena. I remind you that you may start duelling only after I've given permission. Also, keep in mind that I will severely punish everyone who breaks the rules and uses harmful spells."

Hermione's face blanched. She was paired with Tom Riddle, again?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** As usual, I don't own Harry Potter. Not even all the books. What I'm trying to say is that J.K. Rowling has created this fantastic world and its characters, and is kind enough to allow us to play with them.

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

CHAPTER VI

Tom had not given a single thought to his possible partner in the DADA class. But after Merrythought's announcement, he realized the immediate benefits of duelling against Jean. His expression was calm as he faced the witch, albeit his thoughts were everything but. He discerned uncertainty flickering in her eyes and paleness that even her tanned skin could not disguise. She squeezed her wand so tightly in her hand that all colour had fled from her fingers. He took a deep breath. Jean's fear of him felt almost intoxicating. This was how Tom wanted people to regard him – with fear. His chin tensed. He hadn't given her any reason to fear him. He had been very careful in his actions but somehow the new witch knew something about him. He couldn't understand how that was possible.

For a moment, Tom toyed with the idea of using Legilimens on her. Bbut that would be too suspicious. It would also ruin his image in the eyes of that old hag, Merrythought. Well, he could still answer some other questions he had about Miss Greenleaf.

Jean stood still, watching him warily.

_"Gelidus!" _A cold blue light shot out of his wand. Tiny ice shards rained down on the training mat, and he felt a frosty coldness - all the way up to his elbow.

"_Fotum Ipsemet_!" A beam of orange light countered his freezing ray, dissolving the ice as Jean shouted her spell. She sent another hex at Tom immediately after her counter spell. He cast a shield charm before the red energy ball hit him. The magic of the witch shattered against the shield. He waved his hand, shooting a series of green rings from his wand towards Jean.

"_Protego_!" The shield appeared around her, and his eyes narrowed at the implication. So, the witch could do some true magic. He cast away Jean's stunning spell and shot at her with a Confundus Charm, which the witch barely succeeded in repelling. He didn't give her time to counterattack, immediately sending an Impediment Jinx.

_"Expelliarmus!"_ the girl shouted.

Enough was enough. Tom clasped his mouth shut, flicking his wand and was rewarded by a muffled cry when Jean's legs started to move on their own accord. Almost lazily, Tom cast a Disarming Charm, which sent her wand flying smoothly to his hand. He smiled.

"_Finite Incantatem!"_ Professor Merrythought waved his hand, finishing the effects of Toms' non-verbal Tarantallegra. Jean heaved a deep breath aloud, her feet finally stopping their uncontrollable dance. "Very well duelled, Miss Greenleaf and Mr. Riddle," Merrythought acknowledged. "You may return to your places. Miss Yaxley and Mr. Charmichael, take your places in the arena."

Tom walked over to the witch. "Your wand, Jean."

Silently, she took it, avoiding his eyes. It didn't matter. He had gotten his answer.

(i)

Her heart thumped, sending blood rushing through her veins. It echoed in her ears, and her hands trembled despite her best efforts to hide it. Hermione had never dreamed about duelling against Lord Voldemort. That had always been Harry's task.

Tom wouldn't harm her in broad daylight, not in front of a teacher, but his skill! Deflecting his spells still hurt her head. And, by Bloody Baron's knickers, Hermione wasn't certain if even Harry's reactions were as swift. Tom had moved so agilely, one movement following another with stealthy grace, as if he was performing a deadly dance of his own.

She had a portentous suspicion he had not shown even a fraction of his full strength during the duel. Hermione clasped her mouth shut and barely paid attention to the changing duelling partners while fidgeting with the golden chain around her neck. She stole a glance at Tom.

He stood apart from the other Slytherins and watched, expressionless, the ongoing contest of two Hufflepuffs. Hermione's eyes narrowed, she tried to penetrate his façade, to get even a glimpse of his thoughts. As though sensing her attention, he abruptly turned his head. A small smile touched his lips. Hermione quickly changed her focus, but she couldn't forget his expression, his unspoken words resonating in her mind.

_I see through you._

(ii)

"I understand your concern, Miss Greenleaf. But don't you think you're being a bit hasty now?" Dumbledore leaned forward, his blue eyes twinkling.

Hermione took a deep breath. "With due respect, sir, I wouldn't ask this, unless I knew there was a good reason. Especially since…" she hesitated when she saw a flicker in his eyes. "Sir, I know things which could jeopardize the future of the whole Wizarding Community, I also know that there are persons, living in this time, who wouldn't hesitate a blink to use that knowledge for their own benefit." Hermione wriggled her fingers and shot. "I know about the Chamber of Secrets."

Hearing her words, Dumbledore's expression turned sombre.

"Headmaster Dibbet expelled Hagrid, but Hagrid is…!"

"That is quite enough, Miss Greenleaf," Dumbledore interrupted firmly. He crossed his hands and cast down his gaze, wrinkles appearing on his forehead. Hermione didn't dare say a word, watching Dumbledore as he remained in deep contemplation. Finally, he lifted his head. She released the breath she hadn't even noticed she'd been holding when the old wizard smiled.

"Have you already tried fruit toffees, Miss Greenleaf? They're quite delicious, I assure you."

"No. I'm fine. Thank you, sir." Hermione shook her head. She wasn't particularly fond of sweets in any case.

"You must understand, Miss Greenleaf. That what you are asking of me: I simply cannot do it," Dumbledore said. Hermione's shoulders slumped. She barely listened to him continuing. "I might be an apt Occlumency teacher, but supervising you personally? As much as I would like to flatter my ego and say I wouldn't be tempted, that is not the case. I remember your reaction when you first saw me. I'm not so vain as to think I would never die. But if I could know how it happened… " He left the sentence unfinished, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Miss Greenleaf."

Swallowing her disappointment, she looked at her hands, muttering. "I understand, sir."

She sensed Dumbledore's eyes on her. "I might have a solution to your dilemma though," he said suddenly.

Hermione looked up, startled. She couldn't understand what he was implying. Hadn't Dumbledore just told her a few minutes earlier that he couldn't help her? "Sir?"

"Mind you, it does have its risks, but might be an option especially for a person of your kind," Dumbledore muttered, eyes thoughtful. Then the sharpness returned to his gaze, and he smiled. "I need to make some queries, Miss Greenleaf, before I can say anything more. But what is it the muggles say: Where there's a will, there's a way? And if Occlumency lessons are what you're looking for, I might know a suitable teacher for you."

Relief filled Hermione's mind. She let out an audible sigh. "Thank you so much, sir!"

"No need to thank me yet. " Dumbledore smiled kindly and leaned closer. "In the mean time, I'd like to enquire if you have made any progress with your personal research as of yet?"

She shrugged, forcing down the list of burning questions about Dumbledore's cryptic promise. "Not too much. But I recently found a few books that might prove useful. Thank you for granting me access to the restricted section in the library, sir!" she remembered to add.

He nodded. "Just keep in mind why that is, in case someone should ask."

Hermione nodded her head vigorously, fishing a few parchments from her bag to prove her point, and pushed them onto the table. "I do, sir! I've already drafted some formulas about how to create a spell for creating an Animagus form. I did some research before taking a break…" she confessed.

Mildly curious, he lifted the papers in front of his eyes. "You have? Well, I do have to say this calculus looks quite impressive." He glanced over the paper in her direction.

How on earth did Hermione get the feeling he was laughing at her?

"Well, I'm satisfied to hear you've adapted well to Hogwarts," Dumbledore concluded, pushing the papers back at her. "I shouldn't keep you occupied any longer. If I correctly understood, Horace has given you permission to run some errands after curfew in the Forbidden Forest." He looked mildly interested.

"Yes", Hermione answered, her mood turning sourer with the thought. She didn't want to dwell on yet another alarming discussion she'd had with Professor Slughorn about his Slug Club either. Hermione hurried to elaborate. "We, umm, my potions partner and I, have agreed to brew a potion as our assignment for which we need some ingredients that are to be collected during the full moon only. Aconite, actually. Since Professor Slughorn doesn't have it in stock, he kindly permitted us a chance to get the missing material tonight."

She glanced at the old-fashioned grandfather clock on Dumbledore's wall. Something heavy stuck in her throat as she thought of how much it reminded her of the Weasley family clock. The pointers did not reveal anything about Dumbledore's own family (not that much of surprise there, Hermione concluded in silence). Instead, the pointers were shaped like branches of a spruce tree, and the digits highlighted different parts of an autumn coloured forest. Presently, the dark green pointers were slowly approaching a small bird's nest in which, for the moment, a small sparrow had tucked its head underneath its wings.

"In that case I won't keep you longer, Miss Greenleaf." Dumbledore said, snatching back Hermione's attention. "But I advise you, do take care of yourself…"

She left the office, brows knit tightly together, heading towards Slughorn's office in the dungeons. As usual, meeting with professor Dumbledore had left Hermione feeling bewildered... and disappointed. She had hoped he would understand, or at least prove to be more helpful. As far as Hermione knew, Dumbledore already had his doubts about Tom Riddle and he must have understood that Hermione was referring to Tom of all people in Hogwarts as her potions partner, and as a person to use her knowledge about the future as an advantage. _And it's not that Dumbledore couldn't Obliviate himself were he to learn something from my mind_, Hermione reasoned, frustrated, flaring her nostrils.

Deep in thought, she nearly didn't notice the person on her way.

"Ouch!" she gasped, rubbing her head, and then hurriedly added while taking a step back, "I'm terribly sorry…"

The words died on her lips as she recognized the owner of a dark-haired head who had interrupted her fast-paced journey. The coldness in his eyes froze her once more, the colour reflected by similar shining silver amidst of familiar green, woven into his dark school uniform.

"Oh, Tom," she sharply greeted, quickly fixing her gaze on a spot over his shoulder and trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

Her nerves flared as she noticed his lips twitching, the movement being so small it almost passed unseen. "Don't worry about it, Jean," he assured her, moving aside and allowing her to go by him.

Her step froze in mid-air as he continued in a flat voice.

"But I find it curious you spend so much time with the Gryffindor Head of House, Jean, ignoring the fact we were supposed to meet this afternoon before seeing Professor Slughorn."

"Oh." She licked her suddenly parched lips and turned slowly. How had he known…? She pushed the thought quickly aside and answered, shrugging her shoulders. "It must have slipped my mind. I had agreed to meet with Professor Dumbledore to discuss a project I'm doing in his class."

His eyes narrowed as he inspected her. "_Truly_? And what kind of project are we talking about?"

She shook her head, heart racing. The sound of blood rushing in her ears nearly overwhelmed her, and she - prayed he wouldn't hear it as clearly as she did. "Nothing special, really. Only trying to create a new spell."

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and leaned on the corridor wall, crossing his arms on his chest. The flickering lamps cast feeble light on him, leaving his figure partially in shadow, and she forced down her sudden desire to shrink away.

"That is rather a vague answer, Jean."

Hermione didn't appreciate that flatness of his voice, underneath which she discerned a more sinister undertone. This didn't look good at all. She had tried keeping meetings with Dumbledore as occasional as possible. Still, he noticed them? Reminding herself she used to be a Gryffindor, she lifted her chin and was pleased to hear her unwavering voice. "Since the project is between Professor Dumbledore and myself I would say it's none of your business."

Her defiance didn't please him, if she was reading the subtle signals right: the tightening of his jaw, his tensing shoulders. And then he had crossed the distance between them, hovering above her. How come she hadn't realized how tall he was already?

"I'm the Head Boy and your Housemate and therefore, responsible for looking after students in my house. I'm also your potions partner. So, as a matter of fact, I do have the right to know what you are doing, especially if your _other _duties become an obstacle for accomplishing our project."

Future Lord Voldemort or not, Hermione's temper flared at his words. How dare he? She, who had used a time-turned in her third year, pulling through more courses that anyone else with an O wouldn't be able to accomplish one project? The nerve of his sheer conceit made her see red. Pulling her back straight, she confronted him with her eyes flaming and her cheek burning.

"I can do perfectly alright without you breathing down my neck! I've managed quite well by myself before coming back here," Hermione shot angrily, almost poking his chest with her finger. "What I do in other classes is my business and you better believe it won't have any impact on my school performance. _In any way_! _At any level_!"

His eyes flashed and he gave her a curious look but didn't say anything, following her as she spun around. Accompanying the angry spin with a tossing of her hair, she briskly continued walking towards Slughorn's office.

(iii)

"Ah, you're both here?" Slughorn pulled himself upright and smiled as they stepped through the doorway into his study. A dark gleaming cauldron was steaming behind his back, the steam's ghastly texture changing colour from red to blue, from blue to green. Hermione sniffed the air, trying to recognise the scent of the potion Slughorn was brewing. The scent was familiar, a bit sweet with a dash of earthy soil in it. Hadn't she once smelled something very similar? Hermione furrowed her brows, almost tasting the potion on the tip of her tongue.

"Yes, professor," Tom answered from her side, breaking her thoughts. "We thought that the earlier we get the Aconite collected, the quicker we can return to the castle."

"Tom, my boy. Always so thoughtful!" Slughorn's grin was absolutely radiant as he gazed at his favourite student with evident appreciation shining in his eyes. Seeing the expression sent shivers running down Hermione's spine. She stole a discreet glance at Tom, pondering if he already had learnt about Horcruxes from the potions master.

As if sensing her attention, Tom's eyes drew to her, his expression somehow much too coy for her liking. In a hurry, Hermione turned away, tasting something bitter.

"You're not coming with us, professor?" she asked, her face bleaching when she realised Slughorn hadn't moved from behind his desk.

He blinked. "No, no, my dear. I quite trust in Mr. Riddle's abilities. I have asked our caretaker, Mr. Hyde, to come and lead you out and wait for your return by the gate. He should be here any minute now." He glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall.

Now it was Hermione's turn to blink and her brain almost stopped working. In the Forbidden Forest alone with Tom Riddle? When would this nightmare end? _Most likely only after reading all the books I find from the restricted section in the library_, Hermione bitterly thought. _Maybe I'll become the next dark wizard instead of Voldemort?_

By now, she knew more about the Dark Arts than she had ever wanted not only about the ancient wizarding world. There was no doubt she definitely preferred the latter. Previously, not a big fan of Olympian Wizardology, Hermione had been pleasantly surprised by the newly gained insight and amused. Who would have guessed that Aphrodite invented the first love potions by accident when trying to invent a potion that would heal her crippled husband, or that Zeus had actually been a muggle born wizard.

She almost snorted aloud. Nowadays, even the mere idea if having a muggle born wizard as a head of the wizarding community sounded laughable. In a way, Hermione pondered, those times had been so much easier for witches like her. The muggles and the wizards used to live in peaceful co-existence, trading and meeting each other on a daily basis.

Hermione sighed and chafed her necklace. The weight of the Pythagoras Device felt oddly comforting. She shook her head, trying to shake off an odd hum that echoed in her ears. She couldn't remember when it had started, but it was becoming more persistent, and irritating.

She sighed in relief when the tinnitus finally vanished.

"Err, professor? Is something wrong?" she asked, noticing both Tom and Slughorn eyeing her in a weird way.

Slughorn shook his head, answering hurriedly. "Nothing…nothing. Just a trick of the light."

But something, like a flash of nervousness passing his face, didn't reassure Hermione. She didn't have time to think more about it when she heard a knocking, and the lean and wiry figure of Mr. Hyde opened the door. A bitter old squib, the snickering Slytherins called Mr. Hyde behind his back. She couldn't tell if that was true. Regardless, Mr. Hyde was a definite improvement to Mr. Filch. For one, even if Mr. Hyde detested the students, he didn't say that aloud. Come to think of it, Hermione had never heard him utter a word. Another enormous bonus had been to notice the caretaker of this time didn't own any pets like that nasty-spirited Mrs. Norris. It had made her nightly wanderings somewhat easier, especially when she had to survive without Harry's invisibility cloak.

"Ah, Mr. Hyde! There you are, just in time!" Slughorn greeted the thin, pale man. "These two star pupils of mine need access to the Forbidden Forest. Please, show them away as I need to return to my Veritaserum, or all the month's work will be lost."

The caretaker gave a nod and turned his pale gaze towards Tom and Hermione. Without speaking, he signalled them to follow.

"After you, Jean," Tom politely bent his head. Biting her lip, Hermione forced herself to thank him.

Feeling his warm breath tickling her neck didn't make her feel any better. Tom followed right behind her as they walked after the silent ghost-like caretaker through the dusky corridors, illuminated by scarce lamps, to the front door and the chilly autumn night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** And, as usual, I don't own Harry Potter.

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

CHAPTER VII

_It would be the same at the end of the journey,  
If you came at night like a broken king,  
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,  
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road  
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade  
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for  
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning  
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled  
If at all. _

_Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot_

oxoxox

The moon was only a sickly-coloured sphere in the sky, the misty clouds wrapped around it. Dew covered the blades of grass and streaked the hem of Hermione's robe as they made their way through the meadow, the looming forest around them and a heavy fog lingering around the dark tree trunks. They had passed Hagrid's hut – _No, not Hagrid's_, Hermione's mind was quick to correct. The hut was occupied by the present gamekeeper of Hogwarts. A swell of regret and sadness washed over her at the thought.

The low chirrup of the late fall grasshoppers echoed around, punctuated by the muffled coos of the pigeons and booming calls of the birds of prey hidden within the foliage. A sudden snap and a muffled squeal tore the cool night air. Hermione jumped.

Her anxiety hadn't subsided. If possible, it had increased since the creepy caretaker of the castle had departed and left them to their own devices. She squeezed the knob of the burning lamp, her knuckles white and her other hand tucked in the pocked of her robe. But the familiar shape of her wand soothed none of her unease. She remembered very clearly her abysmal performance in the duel.

Thus far Tom had yet to say anything. He'd remained silent. Hermione squinted at the sight of his back, following the scrawny and barely visible path that twisted and skirted the castle grounds, taking them deeper into the Forbidden Forest.

"How far are we supposed to go?" Hermione asked finally.

Tom halted, glancing over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you're scared, Jean?"

"The Forbidden Forest is a notoriously dangerous place," Hermione snapped. "There are reasons why the students are not allowed to wander here, as illustrated in _Hogwarts: A History_. In the late 19th century, two 4th year Gryffindors were found dead at the forest border. And before that a young Ravenclaw ventured into the forest by himself and was discovered babbling about shadows that lurked in the dark. He spent the rest of his life at St. Mungos. I like myself very much sane and alive, and see no wrong in wanting to keep it that way."

"How very Slytherin of you, Jean," he said.

She ground her teeth, ignoring his sarcasm. At the same time, the comment made her pensive. She often wondered about the reason the Sorting Hat placed her in the Slytherin House. As far as she knew, Slytherins never came from muggleborn families. From half-blood families? Occasionally. As was the case with Snape, or Riddle. There was also another aspect in her house about which she didn't feel particular happy. Most of the Slytherins had a tendency to delve into the Dark Arts.

Hermione had a hypothesis, which she never shared with any of her housemates – mostly since it was inconsistent even at best. But something in the qualities of different houses led her to believe their magical abilities differed as well. Whereas Gryffindors often triumphed in spells that focused on the use of energy, duelling and protective spells for example, Ravenclaws excelled in logical spells instead. Hufflepuffs appeared to have a knack for spells that required concentration and resilience. And the Slytherins… She rubbed her necklace, unconscious of the act. They were good at spells focusing on power and control.

Sorting her into a different house than Gryffindor couldn't be because of her name. As far as Hermione knew, changing a name had no impact on the quality of magic. But here she was, in the Forbidden Forest with the future Dark Lord, who also happened to be her Slytherin Housemate. It left her with a worrisome conclusion that somehow, along the way, something had happened to her magic – and maybe also to her?

She jumped, realizing Tom had addressed her.

"Beg your pardon?"

He snorted. "I start to wonder on what basis the grading is done at Beauxbatons if you're not able to concentrate even for five minutes?"

She flushed, grateful for the darkness. "I…" She snapped her mouth shut and swallowed her apology, lifting her chin. Just who did he think he was to scold her so? "I'm yet to hear something worth listening to."

She practically felt his gaze hardening and forced herself to stay still, hand clutched around her wand.

"For a girl, you do have quite a temper. You'd do better to watch what you let out of your mouth, Jean." Oddly enough Tom's voice sounded smug.

Then he turned and stepped off the path, heading towards a dark shaded section under a leafy Silver Lime, barely visible under the thick cloak of mist. Its faint rustle carried to her ears.

"Where do you think you're going?" Hermione demanded, hurrying after him.

"According to instructions from Professor Slughorn, the Aconitum napellus we need for our potion grows here," he answered in a bored tone as he pulled the sleek silver scythe from his belt and crouched down, almost disappearing in the mist. He glanced at her. "Some light would be useful now."

"Oh. Yes." She lifted the lamp to throw light on the shadowy ground and followed as he cut the tender violet flowers. He worked silently, and, grudgingly, Hermione found herself admiring his subtle nimbleness as he cut the flowers with a tenderness she would have imagined impossible for him, wrapping each petal in a sheet of black silk before placing them inside a black pouch.

After a while, he closed the mouth of the pouch, getting to his feet. "This should be enough," he said.

Hermione just nodded, jittery in the night-time forest. It had grown quieter as the night progressed. The crickets had fallen silent, and she swore she could hear distant howling. Something cracked nearby. She turned to look and stopped, her breath and heart caught in her throat when Tom suddenly snatched her wrist in his hand. It was the same hand in which she had previously held her wand.

"What -?" the words died on her lips as the light revealed his face. Familiar panic started swelling inside her as he pointed his wand at her. Anticipating the worst, she almost screamed when she felt him cast a nonverbal spell. Instead, her mouth slammed shut with a snap. The flame in the lamp flickered and died, leaving them in darkness. Her astonishment was short-lived. Tom Riddle still had a painful hold on her.

She tried pulling herself free and hissed, "Let go of me! Tom!"

"Sh!" He shook his head and squatted on the ground, her wrist still in his grasp. So sudden was his movement, she lost her balance. A small scream escaped her lips as she stumbled down. She heard loud rustling, which was followed by a sense of vertigo, and a thump that forced the air out of her lungs. The clinking sound as the lamp slipped from her hands and hit the roots boomed in the forest. Someone cursed softly.

Hermione blinked her eyes, disoriented. Her brain registered an odd scent, like a combination of parchment and spices. It wasn't a particularly unpleasant scent, as a matter of fact almost homely. Even more curious, the ground beneath her was rising and falling. Her nose was pressed against something soft – clothes. When she realised what she was laying on, she started twitching madly.

"Stay still!" Tom grunted through his teeth and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her even closer to his chest. To feel his arms around her body didn't subdue her panic.

"Are you crazy?" Hermione hissed, trying to wriggle out of his embrace. "Let me go this instant!"

"For Merlin's sake! Be quiet, you idiot, or they'll hear us!" he snapped.

She froze, forgetting the firm grasp around her waist and arched her neck, trying to see in the darkness.

The mist circled around the small clearing, lingering. The trees were only shadowy, monster-like forms. Something cracked again, very near. She felt Tom tensing and took a sharp breath in when she saw them. People, only meters away from them! Their figures remained obscure as they moved back and forth in the mist-concealed forest, moving in the direction Hermione and Tom had come from. Hermione jolted at the snap that came only inches from the tree under which she and Tom lay. Hermione shivered as a dark-robed figure appeared from the mist, passing the tree so close that she could have touched him had she extended her hand. She felt Tom grasping his wand, saw him slowly raising it and pointing at the figure. She tried to fidget her wand to her hand as well but it was confined in between Tom's body and hers. She tensed as the figure walked closer, holding her breath. Tom's arm remained steady. Neither dared to speak.

"What are you doing?" someone spoke from the darkness. The person stopped, hesitating.

"I just…" he started.

Another man appeared from the fog. He addressed the first person in a low voice. "What? We're in a hurry, you know that!"

The man turned and Hermione felt his eyes lingering in their direction. She bit her lip, too afraid to even breathe.

"It's nothing. Lets go," he answered at last, turning and walking away.

They didn't dare to move until they were certain they were alone. His arms slackened, and the movement was enough to remind her of her current situation. With her face burning, Hermione scrambled away from Tom's chest, fishing her wand from her pocket.

"Who do you think they were?" she asked quietly, collecting the dark lamp.

He didn't answer, his face turned in the direction the men had disappeared. The moon escaped the clouds and, for a fleeting moment, Hermione discerned his expression. He glanced at her, hearing her sharp intake of breath, and she found herself lost for words, unable to look away. Tom's grey eyes flashed and he opened his mouth, hesitating; then, snapped it closed. Without a word, he turned and started running back to the castle.

Baffled, Hermione stared after him. His figure had become only an unclear shadow when she regained control of her body and sprinted after him.

(iv)

Hermione had lost Tom to the forest and the fog. Under her breath, she cursed Riddle to the lowest pits of wizarding hell. She stopped when she remembered he was bound to end up there in any case, and continued. After all, it never hurt just to be sure of the fact. On all fours, she crept closer to the loitering men.

Her fingers had grown numb from the sheer pressure of squeezing her wand. She stopped, narrowing her eyes. The men had to be supporters of Grindelwald. She couldn't come up with any other explanation. A shiver ran down her spine when she recalled Valburga Black's words from the DADA class. But what were they doing at Hogwarts? Grindelwald wouldn't attack Hogwarts, would he?

She crept an inch closer and almost screamed when someone grabbed her arm.

Tom.

"Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what they might do if they notice us?" she hissed when he yanked her next to him in the shadow of a hedging plant.

His jaw stiffened. "They won't, if a certain someone would keep her mouth shut."

Hermione's eyes narrowed before she turned to look after the men. "We need to warn the castle."

"And pray tell, how would you do that? They would notice us the moment we tried passing by them."

Hermione rubbed her nose. "I could use a Patronus…" she muttered and shook her head at the idea. No, the moment she cast the spell, the men would know where they were. She glanced at the figures ahead. If they weren't stopped, they would reach the castle in less than ten minutes. She frowned. Still, something in this didn't make sense.

"We could try distracting them," she suggested.

He leaned backwards, thinking. "One leads them back to the forest while the other warns the castle? That's the oldest trick in the world. What if they are prepared for that?"

"You have a better suggestion?" Hermione snapped.

He glanced at her in the darkness. "I merely commented on the weakness of your plan. But it's doable. I'll warn the castle."

He stopped, however, when Hermione seized his arm.

"Why should you do that?" she hissed, annoyed.

Tom's brows rose while he tilted his head, looking at her down his nose.

"You came up with the idea. You may as well show how inventive you are, Jean. I trust you're able to come up with a good decoy?"

Her mouth fell open before she succeeded in collecting herself and gave a terse nod, forcing down her retort. Nearly bristling from anger, she watched him slowly creeping away while clenching her fists. Trust a Slytherin to snake away from the actual danger. A calming breath soothed her irritation. She willed herself to wait until Tom had disappeared from sight. Time ticked away, silently, vanishing in the damp mist. Hermione blinked to clear her vision. Everything had become a flat, white emptiness that concealed the surroundings, muffling the sounds and turning the forest to a ghostly place. She shook her head, banishing the tickling apprehension at the back of her mind.

She waited for some time, giving Tom time to get as far from her as possible, before getting up. Lighting the lamp she still held in her hand, she murmured another spell before starting to walk towards Grindewald's men.

(v)

What did that idiotic witch think she was doing? Tom squinted at the sight of Jean, walking towards the men that lurked in the shadows. Sure, the lamp she held in her hands cast a feeble glow and was bound to attract their attention. But didn't the witch have any sense of self-preservation? He almost snarled in displeasure, wondering how such a dimwit could make it into the Slytherin House.

It didn't take long until she reached the hidden wizards.

"Stupefy!"

Curiously, she froze but didn't fall down, as stupefied victims usually did. Tom remained unmoving while the caped men inched closer. One of them extended his hand to touch her and snatched his hand back, cursing when the image of Jean started flickering and disappeared.

His brows shot up.

"There she is!" someone shouted. Unintentionally, Tom glanced around before he saw Jean with the glowing lamp on his left.

"No! She's there!"

He discerned another Jean running through the forest in another direction.

"Idiots! They're illusions! Don't let her reach the castle!" Someone shouted, reaching the same conclusion Tom had just moments before.

It pained him to admit but the witch had…surprised him, again. Reluctantly, he accepted feeling some sort of regard for her idea. Duplico wasn't a very complicated spell but it was hard to maintain. Based on the multiple Jeans he saw dashing through the misty forest, she must have created quite a few images of herself. Who would have thought? Tom froze and held his breath when one of the men passed his hiding place. He waited until he was certain no one was running in his direction and turned. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. He saw the men running after Jean, who was leading them back into the forest. He discerned the light of her lantern, bouncing further away, daring the wizards to follow her. Still he hesitated. Finally, making up his mind, he pointed his wand at a disappearing back, whispering a spell. No one noticed one of the men fall.

Not waiting any longer, Tom spun around and ran.

(vi)

Hermione ran, her breath wheezing in her throat. She'd given up the spell after maintaining it started sapping too much of her energy. The relief had been momentary at best. Now the men saw her clearly.

A frightened cry escaped her lips when a blast whirled over her head, blowing against a tree and shattering it into thousands of splinters. She felt them scratching her face but didn't dare to stop. She just wiped her face and shot a spell over her shoulder. She didn't notice if it hit anyone, jumping over a fallen tree, and ducked when she heard someone shouting a familiar spell.

A dash of green light swung harmlessly over her head. She swallowed, realizing the men were serious. They would kill her if they caught her.

A figure appeared from the mist, grabbing her.

Her reaction was instinctual. She slammed the lantern into his face, and he grunted, letting go of her. Hermione scrambled away, pointed her wand at him, shouting.

"Stupefy!"

The man fell, and Hermione whirled around. She left the lamp lying on the ground.

Running through the dark forest felt like a nightmare. She didn't see what was ahead of her, where she jumped, what was behind her. Occasional red and green flickers were the only lights she perceived, dashing through the woods in her mad sprint. She crouched, hurling a hex in the direction from where the previous curse had come. Then, to her left.

The wand in her hand wobbled, strained under the effort of channelling her magic, blocking and sending spells equally. She fought against the persistent noise in her ear. No doubt one of the spells had blasted too close to her ears.

She screamed when a spell finally hit her, stumbling down on her face on the ground. Her wand fell from her grasp. Blindly, she reached out for it, tears of pain smearing her face as she squirmed to stand up. Her knees wobbled, her back hurt. She took a step and cried in fright when someone shot another spell at her.

Hermione staggered onto her knees, panting. She heard approaching steps and clenched the wand tighter in her hand. _This is where it ends…_ She had spent all her short wizarding life protecting Hogwarts and its students against Lord Voldemort. It felt ironic that she was now to die here, at the very beginning of the era of Lord Voldemort, so that he could save Hogwarts.

Weary, Hermione watched as the wizards cautiously approached her, noticing with a dark satisfaction that only four remained standing. The men closed the distance between them, watching her silently. She gasped for breath as a sudden pain shot through her body and the ever-present tinnitus crescendoed. She squeezed her wand, willing herself to stay awake.

The men jerked up their heads. Someone was shouting, but it came so muffled. So far away. A sudden flash of light. Her world exploded. Hermione's eyes fluttered closed and everything turned to darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Also, I want to give a big hand to spotpc, who kindly promised to be my beta! Thanks a lot!

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

CHAPTER VIII

"_Time is the soul of this world."  
Pythagoras, ca. 570 – 490 BCE_

oxoxoxo

Since morning the boy had stayed on the beach, working with the coiled and narrow branch of an olive tree he'd picked up from his uncle's grove. Master Pherecydes had instructed him very clearly, and Pythagoras was resolute not to let his teacher down. If he finished the calculations, Master Pherecydes might even start teaching him the mysterious magic he had learnt during his journeys deep in the Persian Empire.

With the tip of his pink tongue sticking out between his lips, Pythagoras carefully wrote numbers and letters in the sand. Occasionally, he stopped and muttered incantations Master Pherecydes had made him memorize.

The sunlight glittered on the waves rolling in on the pebbled beach with a soft roar. The seagulls' high shrieks tore the air and, as if echoing the sound, a loud boom clanged about. A blinding flash of light appeared in the sky, and something dark and big fell straight onto his drawings, sprinkling dust and small stones around, the edges of gravel gleaming in the bright sun.

Clumsily, he clambered to his feet with a frightened yelp.

It - - a human shaped thing lay still, light brown hair spread around her head on the yellow sand like a broken fan. Dressed like no one he had seen before, she wore a dark long cloak and underneath even more clothes: a black woollen shirt and a grey dress which left her knees bare. He leaned closer, inspecting the leather shoes on her feet and the socks reaching her mid-leg, and poked the girl carefully with his stick. A big lump of gleaming rock protruded from the sand, only inches from her head, and casting a tall shadow on her face. A trickle of blood smeared the skin of her neck. She might have hurt her head when she fell. She may even be dead. A flickering vexation worked its way in his mind when he realized that all his morning's work was now lost. Then, contrary to his better judgement, she suddenly let out a low moan and moved her limbs. Startled, Pythagoras retreated further when she pushed herself up, slowly, as if in agony.

(vii)

Her ears were still ringing. Her body ached from the hexes and curses her pursuers had cast on her, and a pounding headache was brewing behind her eyes. It took time from her brain to digest something was off. For one, Hermione blinked, everything was bathed in bright light, and the warm breath of a breeze caressed her skin though it had been a damp and chilly night laced with the fresh scent of pines just a moment ago. Her nose wrinkled at the odd saltiness in the wind. The flowing murmur of something - - _water?_ carried to her ears.

When her gaze finally focused, the reason became apparent. A sea glimmering in the sunbeams rocked only meters away, white-rimmed waves crashing in on the sand and gleaming peaks of grey rock jabbing through the restless mass of clear blue. A few steps away, a dark skinned – _or tanned? –_ small boy in a light grey, simple tunic and with tussled hair jutting out stubbornly from his head stared at her. Having a sudden epiphany, she almost groaned out loud. _Not again!_

"_Ποιος είσαι εσύ;_"

As far as Hermione knew, it could mean anything from 'who are you' to 'are you a demon?' She decided that she preferred the first option. The boy appeared to have a quick mind. His eyes shone with curiosity. Not with fear. There was wariness maybe, but no true fear.

Coughing, Hermione pointed at her chest. "I'm Hermione."

"_Ευχαρίστηση να σας γνωρίσουμε. __Είμ__ Πυθαγόρας. Είστε ντυμένος με αστείο τρόπο," _the boy said, flashing a surprisingly white smile. He must be speaking Greek. some of his words sounded similar to what Hermione had heard on her holiday. Then, his gaze fell on the wand that her hands were still clasping. Something flickered in his eyes while he looked up and inquired:

"_Είσαι μια μάγισσα, δεν είσαι;"_

"Yes, I'm a witch," Hermione said and thrust the wand in her pocket, wincing when the sore bruises reminded her of their existence. The world swayed in her eyes, and she leaned against the rock behind her. After things moved back to their proper place, a displeased grunt escaped her lips. "A witch lost in time! I bet that stupid device has now taken me to the prehistoric wizarding world." Too weary to care, Hermione dismissed her tone. It sounded petulant even to her own ears, craving a chance to blame the world for its unjustness.

She didn't get a reply from the world, or the boy who was regarding her with a bewildered air about him. The sight of his expression diminished some of her exasperation.

Hermione waved her hand in a tired gesture. "Don't mind me. I'm not having my best day today."

"_Ελάτε μαζί μου. Σας παίρνω__στο σπίτι μου,__"_ he said, pointed with his stick behind his back and then took her by the hand. He tossed his head, indicating that he wanted Hermione to follow.

"Umm. Okay?" she said, doubtingly.

The pain in her head intensified as she scrambled up. For a moment she feared she might fall into a swoon, hardly managing to stay standing. The nameless boy yanked her hand with more vigour, and, without strength to resist his persistency, Hermione allowed him to lead her away from the sun baked beach.

The longer they walked, or, in Hermione's case, stumbled forward, the clearer it became she had travelled further than should be possible with any time turner. The sandy path skirted over rolling hills with low red-clay buildings – huts really – scantily dispersed over the landscape peppered by trees of sallow green, and flocks of white-tinted herding animals running loose. An echoing cry of bleating goats carried to her ears. The hems of her robes and her black shoes were soon caked in brown dust, and the sweat, emerging from the roots of her hair, dampened the base of her neck. She shivered as if in cold. As far as Hermione guessed she might be in the same time with Pythagoras. Her thoughts faltered. That had been - what? More than two thousand years ago.

Her suspicion was confirmed. The village they arrived at was feeble in every way imaginable, consisting of less than a hundred low buildings similar to those she had seen earlier. The dusty, narrow roads were crowded with all kinds of animals – pigs, goats and chickens – running loose. Stopping their work and coming out on their doorsteps, shabby-clothed people stared at Hermione. Hermione's cheeks burned, her eyes finding solace in the rocky path beneath her as she tottered after her self-appointed guide, grateful for his existence.

Finally they reached their destination. Nothing singled the clay building out from the others but it must be where they were heading, since the boy stepped boldly over the open doorway and dragged Hermione with him.

He shouted, walking through the crudely furnished rooms. Heavy smoke hung in the air, mingling with the strong smells of incense, spices, sweat and dung. Her eyes watered and she could hardly breath, her senses assaulted by this severe combination of all possible aromas.

A skinny man with sunburnt skin hurried inside from the courtyard, bowing deeply. Her brows creasing, Hermione listened to how the boy snapped at the man and then pointed at Hermione. The man stole a glance at her, bowing another time, and shook his head.

"Όχι." That word Hermione recognized. _Ohi_. _No_. Whatever the boy had said, the servant didn't agree.

The boy's shoulders stiffened at the servant's denial. He waved his hand, speaking quickly. Again the servant shook his head.

The fatigue started ebbing away her remaining strength. She swayed, the lilting language mutating into a buzz. Her feet trembled, and she quickly steadied herself, leaning a hand against the rough wall. Barely acknowledging the coolness the clay emitted, her gaze drifted from the two people to the low bench next to the wall, then over the wooden table on which a slatted box crowded with various tools had been laid, and to the round-shaped windows that disclosed the courtyard and its squat and gnarled silver-green trees. Across the yard, she caught an entrance to another building. The rustling of the leaves grew stronger, blending with the words of the manservant and the boy in their heated exchange.

Hermione's thoughts wandered. Had Tom made it to the castle and warned Dumbledore about the men? She hoped so. _Funny though_ _that I don't remember reading even a pass__age about __the attack in the Hogwarts: A History_. A familiar itch made her fingers curl. Her book was safely tucked in her chest in her room, back in her own time. Though mom and dad never pried into her belongings, Hermione had sealed the chest before leaving, out of habit mostly. Once in her fourth year, she had caught Lavender and Parvati rummaging through her items in search of proof of her and Viktor's supposed love affair.

The sudden return of the memory almost crushed her, and the arm with which she steadied herself started shaking. What would her parents and friends think about her disappearance? A dread she had fought against since having been flung from her time to the past clutched her heart so tightly Hermione couldn't even breathe.

Hermione blinked at a voice penetrating her hazy mind, glancing down at the boy. He asked something in a worried tone. Helplessly, Hermione shook her head and was startled to feel something moist on her face. Her fingers shook when she touched her cheek. _Tears? I'm crying?_ The boy repeated the question but Hermione didn't know what to answer. The trembling increased while tears continued pouring down.

Since the moment she found herself in Dumbledore's home, Hermione had forced herself to keep her memories suppressed, knowing that wallowing in the past wouldn't help her in getting back home. It was as if an unknown lid now opened, allowing images of her parents and friends to surface, each crystal-clear. The remnants of her energy sapped, Hermione stumbled against the wall, her feet slipping on the earthy floor.

Hastily, the boy rushed to support her. His head barely reached her armpit, and Hermione slipped even further. The boy snapped an order to the servant over his shoulders and, grunting, he obeyed.

"No, please! I don't need any help. I'm fine." Her words came with a choke, and she tried to wriggle loose when the lanky man wrapped his rough hands around her waist. He pursed his lips, and his grip on her became even tighter. Hermione gave up, swallowing a sob.

Together the two helped her up and half-carried, half-dragged her through the doorway, across the courtyard into another building. She scarcely discerned the surrounding from her blurry sight – _just_ _from exhaustion_, she firmly told herself. Relieved that the agonizing trip finally came to end, she was helped down on a bulky surface, the rough texture of linen brushing against her skin.

Speaking in an encouraging tone, the boy patted her hand. Through her teary gaze she saw eerily familiar-looking lopsided smile and returned it without thinking.

"Efharisto," _thank you, _she whispered, letting her hand fall. It touched something cold – _the_ _Pythagoras' Device_, and the realization was enough to bring the crawling homesickness crashing over her like a tidal wave of sorrow and grief. Hermione burst in tears.

(viii)

They left her alone, out of courteousness or embarrassment; she didn't care. _It must have something to do with the fact that boys never want to see __a__ girl crying,_ Hermione decided when her feelings finally calmed down. Neither Harry nor Ron appeared comfortable at the sight of tears. Lying on her rough bed, she stared at the cracks in the ceiling and shifted to her side, the lumps of the thin mattress poking into her back and the fresh bruises. She winced. But the pain was a welcome distraction from the echoing emptiness gnawing at her within. A noisy breath fled from her lips.

Her heart sped up at the sound of approaching footsteps that sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through her body and momentarily banished her fatigue. Despite the movement sending a lilting pain up her spine and fogging her sight, Hermione scrambled to sit up, her eyes fixed on the doorway. She relaxed at the sight of an unfamiliar woman wearing a white, sleeveless mantel and with her dark hair veiled. She didn't look much older than Hermione but there was weariness in her and the way she moved that didn't match her face.

She indicated for permission from Hermione to sit down. However, when the woman reached to touch her neck, Hermione pulled away, ignoring the sharp throbbing of her muscles.

"Get away from me or I'll…" Hermione sputtered.

The woman looked down, curious, and Hermione froze, wondering at her reaction. Then she blushed, noticing where the woman's attention lay. Her hold on the wand she kept pointed towards her chest remained steady though. The silence stretched on. Hermione heard faint noises of horses, goats and chickens from outside. The woman remained still before brushing her own neck and then signalled Hermione to repeat the movement. She flinched at the touch of something wet. _Blood, and a great deal of it. _Numbly, she stared at her red-stained fingertips before lowering her wand with a sigh. That explained her throbbing head.

"I'm sorry. But I don't like strange people touching me," she mumbled, realising in the instant how useless her words were. The woman understood her as little as the boy or the manservant.

The woman's name was Pythais, Hermione learnt while her nurse treated her wounds, and she was a witch as well. Uncomfortably aware of Pythais' hands trailing across her body and the odd tickling sensation her touch caused, she stayed still. Shivers ran down Hermione's spine and her hair stood up as she caught Pythais intoning words, small incantations, under her breath while drawing rune-like marks on her skin. The touch of her hand left a fleeting trail of coldness, numbing the worst pain. It wasn't a pleasing sensation, and her nervousness didn't lessen at the fact that Pythais apparently didn't need a wand to cast magic. Hermione resisted the urge to back away. Pythais' magic felt different, wild - - wrong.

Relieved when she finished tending her, Hermione made a tentative roll with her arm and was amazed to find that the previously intense pain had all but disappeared. Though still somewhat lightheaded, the world looked relatively normal now.

"Wow. Thanks. I mean Efharisto." She smiled while struggling up. Her feet wobbled but she expected to be back in shape after a few good nights' sleep. Who would have thought…?

Pythais returned the grin with tiny wrinkles appearing around her eyes and placed her arms on her chest, bowing. "Parakalo, Hermione." _You're welcome._

She gestured to the pile of clothes that lay on a wicker bench, but Hermione only shook her head. She was quite comfortable with her own – albeit sullied clothes – and had no desire to dress in similar attire with the Greek woman. Waving her wand, she muttered the cleaning spell that whisked off the dirt and soil from the fabric of her robes. Satisfied, Hermione tucked the wand in her pocket and realised her mistake only at the sound of someone gasping. Pythais had her eyes pinned on her, a stupefied expression playing over her features, and Hermione stifled her curse.

_Oh, Merlin! _What had she done? She doubted the ancient Greek had known Scourgify. Had she changed history with her careless action already? Groaning silently, she reminded herself not to show magic in public as long as she remained in this era. Her resolution faltered, however, when Pythais grabbed her arm and guided her out to the courtyard. The woman's eagerness appeared odd. Pythais' composure had remained aloof all this time. She didn't have to wonder about the change for long though. She stopped and stared at the huge washing basket filled with dirty clothes before turning to Pythais. She couldn't believe her eyes.

The woman flicked her wrist in a gesture that spoke volumes and pointed at the clothes. Hermione chewed her lower lip, finally taking her wand – with a resigned sigh – and waved it.

"Scourgify."

Pythais squealed in delight and clasped her hands together when the dirt, grime and muck vanished form the clothes with a puff. Mirth dancing in her eyes as she turned to Hermione, waving her hand animatedly and speaking quickly. Hermione suppressed her groan when Pythais took her by the hand and started leading back inside the house. With a portentous suspicion she was to demonstrate more magic, Hermione followed half-heartedly.

(ix)

In the evening, Hermione found herself alone on a bench outside the house of Pythais and her husband, a sturdy, dark-skinned man called Mnesarchus. Too exhausted to admire the distant stars appearing in the darkening sky – more clear and bright than ever in her own time – her thoughts strayed to the events of the day.

After making her demonstrate all possible household spells from cleaning clothes to grinding grains (Hermione couldn't suppress her gloating when she remembered how Ron had declared her to be out of her mind for learning spells that no one had practised in the wizarding world since the invention of magical mills), Pythais invited the neighbouring houses' wives to her home and made Hermione demonstrate her magical abilities to them as well. Their child-like reactions would have amused her, had she not felt a slight twinge in her conscience every time she showed a new spell to the amazed women. Well, she should be glad no one appeared to use a wand, making imitating her magic more or less impossible. She sighed, massaging her forehead tiredly while leaning against the rough wall, and closed her eyes.

"Hermione?"

Startled, she looked up. "Oh, hi."

It was the boy from the beach, Pythais' youngest child, Pyth-something. As a part of her tour of the household, Pythais introduced Hermione to the family. In addition to Pythais and her husband, and the boy she had met on the beach, the family included two older boys with similar dark and messy hair-. The two elder brothers kept on calling their youngest sibling by multiple nicknames, confusing Hermione in the process. In the end, she, exasperated, gave up trying to find out the boy's name. From time to time, she still caught glimpses of his unruly head and wide eyes while he followed his mother and her – _not very discreetly even_, Hermione remembered, around the house. But now he faced her directly, standing there in his little toga and skinny legs, and wind coming from the sea tussling his dark hair even more. An eager light shone in his eyes. Another sigh escaped her lips.

The boy took a seat next to her, folding his hands in his lap and kicking the air anxiously. At last, he turned to her and extended his hand. It took time from Hermione to understand he held a dry stick that's surface he had polished smooth - - an image of a crude wand. He smiled at her, apparently proud, and Hermione felt a smile tugging her lips. She didn't know where he'd picked up his stick but she doubted it held any magical qualities.

Barely finding the heart for it, she shook her head while closing her hand around the boy's wrist. His face fell.

"I honestly wish I'd memorized some of those translation spells I read about in _Semantics of Magic_. It would make communicating with you so much easier," Hermione muttered, oddly touched by the boy's futile attempt in creating a wizard's wand, and rubbed her neck. Having already forgotten the scarcely healed wounds, she unconsciously grazed the chain of the Pythagoras' Device against her injuries. A small whimper left her lips.

The boy's breath caught in his throat when he glimpsed her golden pendant and leaned closer, having forgotten all about the wand. Before Hermione had time to react, he had already taken the Pythagoras' Device in his hands and gave it a close inspection, trailing his fingers on the golden spheres, muttering to himself.

"Hey! Don't you know it's impolite to grope other person's belongings without asking permission?" Hermione snapped, plucking the Device from his grasp.

He pouted. His forehead drew together in annoyed wrinkles and he hmph'd before leaning his back against the wall.

An uncomfortable silence fell. The boy resumed swinging his legs in the air, and Hermione's attention wandered away from the sulking child. A distant rumble, the sound of the sea, reached her ears, and she shivered at the cold gust of strong wind, glad of her thick Hogwarts' robe. While fingering the Pythagoras' Device, she wondered why she'd been sent to this time. Was it an accident, or did the Device work according to some indiscernible scheme? Her heart fluttered, frightened at a sudden thought. What if the Unbreakable Curse was meant to keep her here, in the distant past, forever? She bit her lip, fighting the hot tears that once again threatened her.

Immersed in her thoughts, she almost missed the manservant stepping out through the door, a burning torch in his hand. Its flame cast dancing shadows and light on the ground. He noticed Hermione but ignored her, speaking to the boy. The child answered with an arrogant tone while flipping his hand as if to drive the man away.

Hermione didn't appreciate the boy's rude tone he used with the servant as if he was somehow better than him. Half expecting the servant to back off, Hermione followed the exchange. However, the man's expression hardened and, instead of obeying, he took a firmer stance, repeating his demand.

The boy sighed, his shoulders sagging. Then, as if remembering, he cast a sideway glance at Hermione. A sly grin crossed his lips before he turned to the servant, talking to him quickly.

The man tried to interrupt the boy but in vain, finally letting out a resigned sound at the back of his throat, and snapped at him. He started walking away, the light of his torch quickly disappearing in the relentless darkness. The boy jumped up from the bench and turned to Hermione, taking her by the hand, and speaking to her while pulling her up.

She didn't understand the words but understood their meaning. He wanted her to accompany them. About to decline, she closed her mouth with a snap when she perceived a hard-edged glint in his eyes.

"Alright, you git. I'm coming," she muttered and frowned, annoyed. He only flashed a radiant smile back at her.

Some time after passing the silent village, they reached the dark shape of a rocky hill just outside the settlement's boundaries. A crude, stone-carved staircase climbed up, the dark sky curving above like a bottomless well with tiny lights peppered across it. Without stopping, the servant started ascending, the boy following him right on his heels. Shrugging, Hermione took the rear of the group and hoped that whatever the reason for coming here, it would be over quickly. Her headache was worsening, blurring her vision. She almost thought she saw light, which should be impossible. The earth was plunged into impenetrable darkness, void of any electric lights of the future. And the last sight of the village's fires had long since vanished.

Her eyes narrowed as they started approaching the top of the hillside. Her eyes had not betrayed her. A flickering light twinkled ahead, growing stronger the higher they got. Finally, they finished the stone stairs and arrived at the summit. Hermione's mouth fell down.

The first thing she noticed was the ground, smooth like glass, or mirror, reflecting their shadowy figures in its obsidian-like surface. It gleamed an odd but not unfamiliar blue-tinted glow. A group of transparent spheres emitted the light, hovering above the ground. They were dispersed everywhere around the ground to illuminate the whole area. The next thing catching her attention was the shape of a white-robed man sitting cross-legged in the centre.

"Pherecydes."

Hermione guessed that must be the man's name after the boy repeated it a few times. The man, Pherecydes, stopped whatever he'd been doing and got up. Parading with his robes billowing in the wind, he approached them and stopped in front of Hermione. Blood turned to ice in Hermione's veins when his gaze met hers. His eyes were harsh, empty of any kind of empathy.

He sneered, speaking in a low voice.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand you," Hermione said in a soft voice, wishing she could be anywhere but here. Anytime but this time. Face anyone but this impolite man, who made her crave Professor Snape's Potions class. Snape had been an unfriendly man but he never regarded her with such contempt in his eyes.

Pherecydes turned to the boy and the servant, barking at them. What followed was an exchange of quick words back and forth. Clearly he wasn't pleased that the boy had brought her, and Hermione felt her cheeks flushing the longer she listened to his shouting.

Finally, she decided she'd had enough. "You know, I think I'd better leave," she said and wasn't particularly surprised that no one paid any attention to her.

Slowly, she made her way to the edge of the mountain and stopped. She couldn't see anything. If she were to go down on her own, she would break her neck. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoping it would lessen her headache. What should she do? As if by instinct, her hand searched for her wand. She stared at the deep darkness beneath, torn by the desire to flee and reluctance to perform more magic. In the end, her headache reaching its zenith made the decision for her. She waved her wand, murmuring, "Lumos."

A familiar bluish light appeared at the tip of her wand, banishing the dark. Relieved, she took a step forward about to leave this merry group. And stopped.

The man cried surprised. Careful not to worsen her headache, she turned to see him striding towards her. Before Hermione knew, he had cleared the distance, gaping at her with narrowed eyes. Then, to her utter alarm, he pulled something out from his robes.

_Oh. Crap._

The man was holding a wand.

(x)

The day hadn't gone the way Pythagoras envisioned. He had thought Master Pherecydes would be more approving that he found another wand-user. Instead, Master Pherecydes made an awful fuss that Pythagoras brought a woman with him to the lecture and didn't even bother to listen to Pythagoras when he tried to explain the reason, insisting that women were deficient in magic. Did his teacher truly think girls were not able to do magic? Pythagoras' mother was one of most powerful pythonesses in Samos. Everybody knew there was no better soothsayer than her.

Pythagoras' teacher confused him. As long as he remembered, Master Pherecydes had complained about people being averse to learning wand magic. And now when, practically falling from the sky, another wand-used appeared, Master Pherecydes first dismissed her and then insisted she was a sham.

Pythagoras tried describing how the strange girl had used her wand like Master Pherecydes, but he wanted none of it.

"Pythagoras. You must understand a woman is a simple creature that cannot master the precision of magic I'm practising," Pherecydes explained like Pythagoras was a child. In frustration he almost stomped his foot on the ground but resisted the urge, remembering Pherecydes' temper.

"But Master Pherecydes…" he started.

"It is as I said, Pythagoras. A woman has no capacity, nor wit, for the complexity true sorcery requires," Pherecydes interrupted. "This thing you called a woman-magician has to be a charlatan."

Despite Hermione not speaking their language, Pythagoras got a nasty inkling she somehow understood quite a great deal of what his teacher was saying. Her eyes were only narrow slits in her face and an angry flush coloured her cheeks.

"But Master Pherecydes…" he tried once again.

"Not a word more, Pythagoras! If you don't believe, I shall prove it to you."

"What are you going to do, Master Pherecydes?" Pythagoras asked alarmed.

"Don't be afraid. I'll only cast a simple curse that shouldn't harm her." His master's words didn't reassure Pythagoras but he knew better than to challenge Pherecydes.

Casually, Pherecydes waved his wand and pointed at Hermione, muttering a spell under his breath. His relaxed attitude dissolved, however, when nothing happened. Only a faint red light surrounded the girl, and she smirked, swinging her wand mockingly.

"Impossible!" he stammered with a twisted face.

"I told you that she can do wand magic as well," half terrified, half gleeful, Pythagoras exclaimed and cast an obnoxious glance at Darius. The slave looked sour, apparently not impressed by her demonstration. Pythagoras didn't understand his reluctance to bring Hermione to meet Pherecydes either. _Ah, well. Slaves were slaves_, Pythagoras remembered father saying. _They have odd ideas about right and wrong. As a son of valued blood, don't forget that they're below you, Pythagoras._

Father's advice sounded odd since Darius had been a king's counsellor and a magician before the soldiers plundered his city and brought him to Samos. Darius also taught him his first spells before his parents hired Pherecydes to tutor him. Nevertheless, Pythagoras took the words to heart.

"A trick only, I'm certain," Pherecydes muttered and cast a dirty glance at Darius. "Are you certain your slave's wand was broken when he was brought to your household?" He didn't wait for an answer, eyeing Hermione with a calculative glint. "Another spell should prove my point."

It looked as though Pherecydes was doomed to be proven wrong however. Whatever spell he cast, Hermione always had a counter spell for it. The magic prickled on Pythagoras' skin, luminous flickers breaking the lightless night. Mesmerized he followed the spells flying to and fro between the two. Flaming birds appearing and disappeared after a shock of black wave blasted them into splinters, pillars of light reaching the sky. On it went as they attempted to triumph over each other. The air smelled bitter, burnt. At some point, Darius placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You shouldn't stand so close, Pythagoras. I fear your teacher is in a frenzy, and that girl you found is a lot more skillful than Pherecydes gives her credit for. This might get dirty," he warned.

Pythagoras shrugged off his hand. "Don't be a bore, Darius! Master Pherecydes wouldn't do anything that hurts her…right?"

"Pythagoras…" Darius never finished what he was supposed to say. A loud sizzling drowned out his words, and Pherecydes released his spell with a jubilant shout. Air left Pythagoras lungs when a huge fire-blazing creature slowly formed in front of him. A Djin. He had heard about them but had never even believed he would witness one with his own eyes.

"See Pythagoras!" Pherecydes was shouting, his wand emitting a golden glow that coloured his face. The sight of his sweaty face and shimmering dark eyes made Pythagoras all jittery. "Only a true magician may command a creature of the other side!"

"You vain, stupid man!" Darius groaned, sounding fearful. "Order it back immediately before it breaks its chains! No man is supposed to summon an elemental."

"You don't command me, slave!" Pherecydes sneered and smiled nastily. "See if you can outdo my spell, wench!"

She took a step back, and another, her mouth gaping. She slipped and, stumbling down, made a small, frightened sound in that funny language of hers. Maybe a prayer? Pythagoras felt like praying himself while watching the blazing creature that twisted and twirled, confined in its place by Pherecydes' spell.

"Master Pherecydes. Forgive me for interfering but you've proven your point," Darius started. "Maybe it's time to be done with that…creature?"

"You might be right…slave," Pherecydes muttered reluctantly. Pearls of sweat glistened on the magician's face. His eyes moved fast from side to side and his jaw jutted out, his features sharp as if under enormous pressure. He waved his wand, but the Djin didn't disappear.

"Master Pherecydes!" Darius was now shouting. But he was too late. The beast let out an agitated roar, spitting fire and smoke out of its mouth. Pythagoras imagined hearing a snap when the creature flung its flaming arms wide open and moved - so fast. It bent down to scoop up Pherecydes in its arms.

The magician screamed, and Pythagoras smelled burning skin, saw his teacher bursting into flames. His feet were frozen, he couldn't move, staring as the beast lifted Pherecydes above its head, the flames of its skin spurting higher and scorching the man.

The creature tossed the blackened corpse away and turned its burning eyes to him. Something moved in the area of its face. It was smiling, Pythagoras realized, numbly.

"Pythagoras!" Darius yelled, dragging him by the shoulders.

It broke his daze. Panic surging through his veins, Pythagoras turned to follow Darius. Panicking, he stumbled backwards, still looking at the creature over his shoulder. No wonder he tripped on his own feet and fell, yelping. Pain jabbed him in the nose and watered his eyes. Cowering and sobbing, he crawled away, sensing the scalding heat on his back.

Then someone was next to him, pulling him up. It was Darius. Pythagoras closed his eyes and buried his head against Darius' chest, too afraid to look at the Djin, see its frightening, inhuman face. He heard a roar, and then burning hot breath swept over his head, tussling his hair. Darius grunted, stumbled, but did not fall. His arms squeezed Pythagoras tighter, so tight. And then the fiery monster Pythagoras' deceased master had summoned was upon them. An agonized scream from Darius tore his ears. The heat grew unbearable – he couldn't breathe. Helpless, Pythagoras struggled to be released from the previously comforting hug, the sizzling sound drowning out everything under it. He smelled smoke. Burnt flesh. He wanted to throw up. Pythagoras screamed. The fire, it burned. He burned. His legs were aflame. Darius arms slackened around him, letting him fall to the ground but he couldn't move from the pain, crying.

"Aguamenti!"

Like a miracle, the burning feeling vanished. A stream of water poured down from nowhere, extinguishing the fire. Pythagoras whimpered, barely daring to peek when he heard the Djin howling. A stream of water cascaded on it from the dark sky, extinguishing the flames. It looked as if the creature itself also diminished. Growling, it looked at the person responsible for its setback. Hermione. She was facing the Djin, her mouth fixed and her wand in hand. Pythagoras blinked when everything became fluid. Hermione was casting spells, more radiant, more quickly than before. She sprinted and dodged when the Djin tried grasping her, sparks of ice and water shooting from her wand. Spells Pythagoras hadn't known existed.

He whimpered, trying to collect his legs against his chest but that only intensified the burning sensation. He couldn't follow the fight, swallowed in his pain.

Like through a mist, he heard Hermione shouting one last word with a clear voice. Its echo hung in the air, cold and icy. The Djin stopped. The world stopped. And then an icy wind swept over the mountain. His teeth started chattering, mist rose from his breath, and the rock beneath his back froze him. He shivered, the icy windstorm blowing over him, over the mountain.

Silence descended. Nothing moved. Nothing could be heard. And then, a step. Another. With his heart beating fast, he turned his head. A relieved sigh escaped him when he saw Hermione. Only her. The Djin had disappeared. Stripes of soot smeared her pale face, her eyes were gleaming. Her steps were unstable, hesitant; she looked exhausted. But she was alive. Hermione came to him, getting down on her knees and spoke to him. But the sound of her weird language only made Pythagoras feel like crying. He wished for his mother.

She touched his forehead, gently, brushing his hair. Like his mother used to do when Pythagoras was but a child.

"I don't want to die…" Pythagoras whispered, remembering how Darius had crumbled in front of his eyes, black as coal. His teacher and his servant were both gone. A slave had sacrificed himself to protect Pythagoras. For some reason, the thought made him want to wail. Even more than the awful pain from his burned thigh.

"Shh." She soothed, cleaning his face from the blood and dirt. Suddenly, her hand froze, and she gasped.

Pythagoras blinked at the strengthening light. For a moment he feared the Djin had returned. But no, he realised hazily, it was Hermione who emitted the light. Or rather something on her neck, the odd necklace he'd seen.

An odd expression played over her features, half-scared and half-anticipating. The light grew intense, blinding Pythagoras. When his sight returned, he couldn't believe his eyes. He was alone.

There was no trace of Hermione.

oxoxoxo

A/N Since I don't speak either present day or ancient Greek, I had to rely on the Google translator, which claims that the sentences have a meaning as follows (in present day Greek),

(1) Who are you?  
(2) Pleasure to meet you. I'm Pythagoras. You are dressed funnily.  
(3) You're magi, aren't you?  
(4) Come with me. I take you to my home.

I don't usually write long Author's Notes, believing that the story should work on its own. This time I make an exception, since I have a hunch that quite a few readers were hoping to see more Hermione/Tom Riddle-interaction, or expected to see Voldemort on stage. However, I'm not Nabokov, and find idea of Humbert Humbert and Lolita-kind of action quite gross. I am quite certain that you won't be seeing Voldemort in this story. However, be at ease; in the next chapter we'll be back in 1944, and in Tom Riddle's time.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Nope. I do not own Harry Potter. Also, thanks to spotpc, my awesome beta! And thanks to you all your awesome comments.

Also, have an awesome 100th anniversary of the International Women's Day (and fast approaching international day of awesomeness!)

**Lay Beside Me in the Dawn**

CHAPTER IX

"So, you don't care to say what happened after your little stunt in the Forbidden Forest?"

Jean's shoulders stiffened but she didn't look up. Only her feather quill rustled against the parchment as she continued writing, her head bent over her scroll.

"No. Not really," she answered at last, so far without even gracing him with a glance, and Tom clenched his teeth. The girl was infuriating! No matter what he tried, she declined to go along with his plans. It was as if she somehow already knew what he was intending, which was a ridiculous thought. Tom had kept very close care not to involve anyone but his most trusted companions in his schemes, and even Malfoy and Lestrange didn't know all. He rather had it so.

_Divide et impera_. That was his golden rule, if something was. Divide and conquer. Each of those pureblood prats imagined being indispensable to him, but Tom kept his cards close to his chest. A lackey had its own value but only up to its limits.

He tried a different approach.

"Your Patronus created quite a ruckus appearing in the great hall." He said nonchalant, leaning against the wall. The sunlight streamed in through the windows, its shafts warming his back. "For awhile I thought the Headmaster would faint when it started speaking with your voice."

Saying that her Patronus caused a commotion was an understatement. The luminous otter had appeared out of nowhere and silenced the hall of all noise so quickly it should be impossible. Headmaster Dibbet's jaw had fallen open and a hysterical gleam had glittered in his eyes when the Patronus jumped onto the teachers' table, toppling over a goblet before opening its mouth. For a moment, Tom had actually believed he was about to fall off his seat.

"_Professor Dumbledore. It's me, Jean Greenleaf. Please, help me. I don't know where I am."_

Even now Tom remembered the sensation of hearing Jean's voice leaving the creature's mouth – a rush of astonishment, a jolt almost similar to that of exhilaration. When he left the witch in the Forbidden Forest he had thought that was the last sight of her, but Miss Jean Greenleaf didn't play according to his, and apparently, anyone's rules. How vexing. How very intriguing.

Her quill stopped, and Tom allowed the briefest of smiles to flicker on his lips. He pulled his back off the wall, stepping closer, and took a chair across the table. Its legs let out a loud screech, scraping against the floor.

"I've read about people using Patronuses as messengers but have never seen it before. Where did you learn about it?" _Or more important__ly__, why do you know about it?_ His eyes met the crown of her head. The soft brown locks curling just below her ears hid the burn scars he knew decorated her scalp from the prying eyes.

Finally, she lifted her gaze. There was tension behind her face, a trace of that same worry that never left her. She looked strained, exhausted, more than she should, if she really had spent the days after escaping her kidnappers with her family, like she had announced.

Jean bit her lip, avoiding his eyes. "Someone I once knew taught me that," she said, and Tom held back his annoyed grunt. Again that non-answer. She was becoming quite good at those.

"Funny that. Normally Patronuses are used as messengers in wartime."

"Concerning the situation with Grindewald and his army, not to mention the muggle war that's raging across the continent, it shouldn't be a surprise." She sounded hesitant though, looking aside.

"You know what, Jean? I think you're lying." Tom leaned closer, his words a mere hiss. "Where did you disappear to?"

She puckered her lips, giving him a cold look. Whatever happened to her during her absence had changed her. She had lost her earlier timidness. Because something else demanded her attention more than Tom Riddle? Or because she was no longer afraid of him? Neither option pleased him.

"Again. That's none of your business. Now, if you wouldn't mind, Tom? I have mountains of school work to finish and you're being more of a distraction than a help." She moved her attention to her books. Beneath the pile of dusty tomes, Tom caught a glimpse of her shabby-looking _Hogwarts: A History _thatshe had been carrying as long as he remembered. One could have thought she would find herself something else to read by now.

He turned to hide his grinding teeth. The witch had certainly worked up his nerves. It took all his willpower to keep his temper balanced as he strode out of the library, almost bumping into the Gryffindor Head Girl, McGonagall, at the doorway.

Only by effort he succeeded in muttering a hasty apology, not waiting for an answer. The Gryffindor stick of a witch was less stupid than an average Hogwarts student and might wonder. But not as much if she was to notice the rage burning behind his eyes.

And when he could let go of this act of a model student – as if he cared what the witless students and inconsequential teachers thought of him – and had the power! When he made the rules…Tom Riddle almost smiled at the lucrative thought. The world would cower in front of him.

Quickly he sobered, remembering.

But for now he was Tom Riddle, the Head Boy. And as long as he remained Tom Riddle, he had to play according to the rules of others.

Just thinking about it made him even angrier.

(i)

His followers were already waiting. Abraxas leaning against the wall and looking bored, Anton Dolohov inspecting his fingernails and pretending he wasn't nervous - each giving mistrustful glances at each other while they thought no one was noticing. Startled, Nott and Lestrange quit their earlier discussion when he arrived at the empty classroom that Slughorn had assigned him for tutoring purposes. _If only Slughorn knew_…He pushed the memory of the Potions teacher out of his mind at the same time he closed the door and cast a spell that would keep prying ears away.

"Avery! I have a task for you," he snapped.

"Consider it done, Voldemort," Thomas Avery answered, jumping to his feet and whisking a stubborn mop of brown hair from his eyes.

Oh, how Tom waited for the time when the boys would call him 'My Lord. But he guessed requiring that from teenage boys who also were his classmates was too much to ask. So he walked to Malfoy and Lestrange, inspecting his closest men.

"This includes you two as well, Abraxas and Maximilian."

Abraxas nodded, slowly, grooming his flaxen-haired head, as was his habit, while Lestrange returned Tom's stare.

"What do you want us do, Voldemort?" Maximilian asked, his dark eyes glinting in the weak light.

He considered a moment. "Use your affiliation to find out why Grindelwald's men were here. It shouldn't be a problem for you, Abraxas, with your family's connections in the Ministry."

Abraxas smiled smugly, thinking - - who knew what. Only by effort Tom succeeded in keeping his face blank. At times the Malfoy heir grated on his nerves more than was allowed. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Maximilian. "And I believe your family has someone in Grindelwald's circle."

Maximilian pursed his lips together, clearly annoyed that Tom brought up the subject. "We don't speak about it," he muttered in a sullen voice.

"Well, now you do," Tom said coolly. "There's something brewing, and I need to know what."

Maximilian's mouth drew into a tight line but he wasn't stupid. "Very well, Voldemort. I'll see what I can find out."

"Good. Report to me immediately what you learn. Even the smallest information might be useful. And Avery," he turned around to inspect the lanky youth. "I want you to keep eye on the new witch."

"Greenleaf?" Thomas sounded surprised.

"Her," Tom confirmed brusquely. The boys were regarding him in a stunned silence, and his fists clenched when his already irritated mood was set ablaze. His motives didn't belong to anyone else.

"Follow her as discreetly as you can. I don't want _any _of those catastrophes from the Transfiguration class." He gave a pointed look at Dolohov. Luckily, the dolt understood enough to appear remorseful, his skeletal face paling at the sound of Tom's sour words. "No hexes, curses or anything that might cause trouble. I only need you to watch out for her."

"You want me to be her babysitter," Thomas snorted. He clearly didn't approve of the task Tom had assigned him.

He didn't have time to even yelp when Tom's spell hit him on the chest, ramming him against the wall.

"I didn't ask your opinion, Thomas," Tom warned, the tip of his wand pressed against the boy's Adam's Apple. "You are to do what I say without questions or comments. Got it?" He glanced at the other boys and was pleased to see their alarmed expressions.

"Alright," Thomas squeezed through his teeth.

It wasn't quite enough for him, and he leaned closer, hissing, "What?"

Resignation and helpless anger reverberated in Thomas' voice when he added, "Lord Voldemort."

(ii)

"Miss Black."

Her shoulders tensed at the low, smooth voice. She recognised it even before turning and confronting the Head Boy's fine-structured face, his flickering grey-eyed gaze and his faintly upward curved lips. Cedrella swallowed and glanced around, desperately, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone else. No matter who: Alphard, Rose, or some nameless student. Or a teacher. Even the creepy caretaker, Mr. Hyde, would have been a welcome sight. Unfortunately for her, she was alone. And now alone with Tom Riddle. That he was here without his usual companions didn't lessen her tension. Merlin, she would have even enjoyed seeing Abraxas' smug smile.

"Riddle." She lifted her chin as an acknowledgment. A gesture intended to show her self-sufficiency and strength of character. A futile gesture both of them knew.

He was looking too leisured, too relaxed. Nothing good ever came from Riddle looking that way, Cedrella had quickly learnt after starting her schooling at Hogwarts. She remembered her first impression of him. A small, silent boy with a muggle name. She had almost felt sorry for him when the Sorting Hat announced him as a Slytherin, catching a contemptuous glint in Valburga's eyes and hearing a derisive snort coming from Jonathon Nott. That was then. Now, she knew better.

Startled to realise he'd crossed the distance between them without her noticing, she backed off and stammered, "What do you want of me, Riddle?"

He tut-tutted, a haughty ghost of a smile flickering on his lips. "Why do you insist that I would want anything of you?"

"You're here, isn't it so?" Cedrella forced the words out of her mouth, knowing she was balancing on a thin line, her eyes desperately trying to find an escape.

"Hardly." He snorted a laugh. Then, his expression hardened. "But you're correct in that I'm here to see you for a particular reason."

_Jean_. _He must mean Jean_. Cedrella realised, struggling to keep her features calm. It wouldn't do to show him she understood.

His eyes narrowed. "Yes. I'm here because of your bosom friend, Greenleaf," he hissed as if reading her mind.

"I haven't talked to her! I promise!" The words left her before she got control of her tongue. Understanding it left her disheartened. This was how much integrity she possessed?

"I know you haven't," Riddle sneered. "And trust me, Black, if you had, I would know that as well. You've been a good girl. Continue so, and you don't have to worry about crossing onto my bad side."

Cedrella moistened her parched lips. "What…what do you mean?"

He sighed, exasperated. "Very simple. I want you to forget my earlier advice and rekindle your relationship with Greenleaf."

She stared at him, eyes wide open. She didn't trust hearing him right. "But you -"

He interrupted her with a snap. "Don't try my temper, Black. Which part didn't you understand? Be her friend again."

"Why?" She eyed him sceptically, trying to understand the schemes of his twisted mind.

He scowled, taking a step forward. Cedrella retreated with haste and stopped when her back touched the cold stone wall. She gulped down a lump in her throat. Riddle towered above her, so close she perceived a wisp of his cologne in her nose.

"That's none of your business, Black. Just do as I say."

"And what else do you want me to do?" Cedrella couldn't totally keep the bitterness out of her voice, lifting her chin. She was a Black, goddamn it! Not any spineless Macnair or Avery. "Spill poison in her pumpkin juice?"

"Being her friend is quite enough for me as of now," Riddle answered, sounding amused.

"What makes you think she agrees?" Cedrella mustered the wreckage of her nerves, meeting his gaze. "I abandoned her when she needed a comrade. I left her alone," _at your mercy_. For a moment, she feared having said that aloud, catching an angry flash in his eyes. Hurried, she continued. "If I were her, I wouldn't want to have anything to do with me."

She nearly stopped breathing when he gripped her by the throat. She let out a strangled choke, stiffening. Though the grip wasn't painful, she didn't dare to move; the look in his eyes froze her blood. His breath tickled her skin when he leaned towards her, hissing. "For your sake, Black, you better make sure that doesn't happen."

He released her unexpectedly, a disgusted frown on his face. Gasping for air and leaning against the wall for support, she coughed. "And what should I say to her if she asks for a reason? If she asks why I want to be her friend again?"

"Since you're such a good actress, I'm certain you'll come up with a clever explanation," Riddle said, and a nervous shiver run down her spine at the words - - a bitter reminder about their deal. "Just become Jean's friend again."

"And what if -?" she whispered. "Will you let me be if I succeed?"

He flashed a pointed smile. "Wanting to get rid of me so quickly? Tsk, tsk. One could take that as an insult. It's a good thing I'm such a charitable person and will forgive your ill manners, Miss Black." He took a step back and tilted his head with a vaguely polite and unreadable expression, looking like he always did - - Hogwarts' very own model pupil. It distressed her to see how easily he could mask his true nature, even from her. "I think we might exchange a word or two afterwards concerning our mutual acquaintance."

He saw understanding in her widening eyes and smirked, then turned. Tom Riddle left, but she didn't move. Cedrella stared at the floor, hot tears in her eyes, and feeling worse than ever in her life. If Aphard had known he would have snorted at her disgustedly. And Valburga…She would be fuming. Blacks were not helpless. Blacks were proud. No one told a Black what to do. Cedrella, however, had been reduced to being Tom Riddle's servant. She had become his spy.

With an aching heart, she asked herself the same question she had asked for some time now: How in the hell had she let herself to be dragged in this situation?

Cedrella sighed and pulled back her shoulders, hearing approaching steps. She might be a coward but she wasn't an idiot. If someone were to see her alone in the corridor and looking like the world had turned its back on her, it would cause questions.

She didn't desire them and as she guessed, neither did Riddle.

(iii)

The library was silent and peaceful as though contradicting her inner turmoil. Cedrella fingered the straps of her bag, nervous, while she headed slowly across the floor towards the place she knew was Jean's regular study corner. At the end of library and behind a stock of bookshelves. Since the accident in the Transfiguration class, Jean had mostly sat alone. On occasion – Cedrella suppressed a shiver – Tom Riddle was in her company.

Her face in a frown, she cast a fleeting thought on the realization. Riddle had spent time with Jean for almost a month. Apparently he hadn't achieved whatever he had set out to learn from her. His surprise visit today proved that.

What made him think Cedrella would be more successful? That Jean wanted to have anything to do with her?

Suddenly wary, Cedrella stopped. To the extent Cedrella had noticed, nothing singled out Jean from any Hogwarts student – _minus her enthusiasm for studying_.

But Cedrella doubted Riddle had taken interest in her merely for her success in grades.

_Well, she kind of __lacks __a__ penchant for talking about her family._

That wasn't any reason either. As a half-blood, her lack of enthusiasm wasn't any wonder – this was Slytherin House after all, and Cedrella was ready to drink a whole cauldron of Polyjuice Potion that her blood-status wasn't the reason to trigger Riddle's interest. Riddle definitely didn't care about half-bloods, being such himself.

_Well, she was __transferred to Hogwarts quite suddenly_.

Her eyes narrowed, the memories of the Sorting Ceremony playing in her mind. What had Jean said then? Something about Hogwarts being safer, which she had dismissed. _But there was that incident with Grindelwald's men..._

Now, come to think of it, quite a few things definitely didn't ring true with Jean Greenleaf. She let air escape through her teeth in a loud hiss. Why hadn't she noticed before?

The image of Jean's earnest face and bright, brown eyes that betrayed each of her emotions so clearly surfaced. Easy. With a face like that, it was nearly impossible to lie. _And you of all __people__ should know that looks can be deceiving, Ced._ Cedrella's grip clenched on her bag's straps, and the leather creaked under the touch. She continued forward, with a sudden decisiveness, her mind clear on the issue.

Jean had thought she could make fool out of her. Well, Cedrella could do the same. Just watch how easily.

Merlin forbid anyone tries fooling a Black.


End file.
